Starkhaven is for Lovers
by tinyfierce
Summary: Long after the Arishok leaves Kirkwall and Hawke behind, she and Sebastian enter into an amicable yet loveless betrothal as they attempt to retake Starkhaven. But the road to the throne isn't easy, and neither is such an arrangement. Extended cameo by everyone's favorite Antivan elf.
1. Blame Varric

**A/N:** New year, new story!

This takes place about two or three years after the culmination of Act II, when the Qunari vacate Kirkwall.

It also takes place after the events of my in-progress story The Arrowhead, and assumes that Hawke let the Arishok take Isabela and leave, breaking her heart in the process. But this is only _one_ of Hawke's possible futures, and I fully intend on exploring other paths she might take. =)

I held a vote as to who would be the main companion for my NaNoWriMo challenge, and the winner was our lovely choir boy. It's quite fun writing something extended with Sebastian - usually he's there to be either a) seduced or b) a wet blanket. He's one of the less-loved characters (my lord, there's a lot of Anders and Fenris love in this fandom!) but one of my absolute favorites.

(Speaking of other characters I love, there's an extended cameo of everyone's favorite Antivan assassin waiting for you in the later chapters.)

As Starkhaven is DA's rough allegory for Scotland, I was all too happy to dive right in. I even called my very scottish family overseas for tips on language, though not many still speak scots gaelic. This is how the conversation with my uncles went:

"How do you say [x]?"

"Aeeoriuthuutheronfjdklsblagch."

"… how do you spell that?"

"HAHA YEAH RIGHT Here, have a website."

Anyway, I plan on weekly updates up until the 17th chapter and an epilogue, so stick with me. The end is in sight!

And enjoy.

* * *

><p>"Yeah," Varric declared. "Definitely a trap."<p>

He sat with Sebastian at the Hanged Man, a scroll dripping with jewel-toned ribbons and gold leaf sitting on the table between them, calligraphy scrawled expertly in its contents.

Sebastian sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. "I had assumed as much, though I thought it best to check with someone who has had more -"

"Dirty dealings?" Varric offered.

"Relevant life experience," the archer finished, raising an eyebrow. "Though your counsel is much appreciated."

Varric frowned, picking up the fluttering piece of parchment and giving it another once-over. "Still don't see what you needed me for. Any idiot could look at this and smell a rat."

"I know." He smiled bitterly, folding his hands in his lap. "I suppose I was somehow hoping that it wasn't, that I was being paranoid."

"I know, kid." Rolling it back up, the dwarf handed the invitation back. "I know the feeling."

They sat in silence for a moment, Varric's next ale arriving and Sebastian's glass of wine sitting in front of him, still largely untouched. A shadow passed over the latter's face, and Varric studied his expression for a moment before letting out an exasperated sigh.

"Don't tell me you're still planning on going."

"I don't have much of a choice, Varric." He stared darkly at the royal seal, as if its very use offended him. "This is a sign, one that cannot be ignored. I've spent the years following my parents' deaths knowing what I must do, and finding every reason not to."

"Helping Hawke is a perfectly good reason."

A smile passed over Sebastian's lips as he remembered the moment he had offered his services to her in whatever capacity she should need. She'd grinned and snapped back with some kind of innuendo, but after she saw the look that must've been on his face, she had apologized profusely and promised to try to keep her bad habit in check when he was around.

She'd lasted all of a week.

"Aye," he said with a chuckle, "if anyone were able to convince me to stay, it would be Hawke."

Varric leered at him over the rim of his mug, and Sebastian narrowed his blue eyes just enough to remind him that they were _not_ going down that path of conversation again. He had no desire to be the butt of the dwarf's jokes any more than usual.

When Varric simply snickered but said nothing, the archer relaxed and gave him an acknowledging nod in modest thanks.

"I'll take my leave of you now," he said, standing and gathering up the fanciful invitation. "It appears I have some business to attend to with the Grand Cleric."

"Good luck with that," the dwarf replied, leaning against the arm of his chair. As Sebastian turned to leave, Varric called out to him. "Hey, Choir Boy."

The man turned, and Varric gave him the closest thing to sound advice that he could stomach giving to anyone.

"A wise man avoids traps. A _smart_ man walks into a trap with reinforcements."

* * *

><p>Hawke walked briskly through Lowtown, the last remaining chills of winter to survive into spring biting at her cheeks. She'd had to dig out one of her cloaks from the storage bureau, where she'd over-excitedly packed all of her winter clothes at the first sign of buds on the trees just a few weeks before.<p>

She may have been _slightly_ premature, and the Kirkwall spring was mocking her for it now.

It didn't matter, though. She had needed a long walk, and snow or hail wouldn't have stopped her. It had been nearly two years since the qunari had quit the city, the Arishok leading them home to Par Vollen. And two years since she had stayed behind on the docks as she ships set sail, the both of them knowing full well that it was the way things had to be.

Now the former compound was shrouded in enormous black hangings, emblazoned with eye-shaped insignias and pointed edges. It was eerie to see it so devoid of life and closed off, and it was near a month that she couldn't walk by without keenly feeling her loss.

Friends had helped. Friends and booze, both of which she had both clung to and battled with fiercely for some time after the Arishok's departure. Neither had judged her, though, and she'd been closer to herself again for over a year. And her relationships with both had been healthier again.

The walks had also become therapeutic. They were a way of meditating without sitting still, and the endorphins from exercise kept her thoughts farther from homicidal and more toward the practical.

She was a grown woman who knew what she was getting into when she leapt into it headfirst. And she'd come out all the wiser for it, having loved and been loved, both in their own way.

And with her new armor, she could now withstand a bolt of lighting. There was irony to be found in there somewhere.

But back to life as she knew it, with all of its troubles and the passing of time.

Speaking of time, she thought as she looked to the darkening sky, she had a date to keep at the Hanged Man. She hooked a right at the next set of towering city walls, weaving her way through the thinning crowd and heading for the tavern.

Once inside, she pulled off the fur-lined hood and warmed her face and hands by the fire, scanning the room for her companions. It took all of a moment to spot Varric and Fenris at the table, an open bottle of wine making it look that much more inviting.

She threw herself into the open chair waiting for her, shrugging off the cloak and draping it over the back. "I need something, _anything_ hot," she said, pressing her palms to her cheeks. "and a decent set of gloves."

Varric snickered at her pink cheeks and Fenris waved over one of the servers. "You know, Hawke," the dwarf started, "that could mean any-"

She clapped a chilly hand over his mouth to silence him, taking an enormous swig from whatever he was drinking. "Nice try," she said, placing the mug back on the table, "you'll get it next time."

"You owe me a drink now."

"I owe you a _tenth_ of a drink and you practically own this place."

He shook his head, looking sadly at his ale. "Fenris, back me up here."

Smirking into his wine, Fenris pointedly looked away. "I saw nothing."

Hawke laughed and pressed an icy kiss to his temple, a sign of affection that the elf now tolerated, if not enjoyed. Not that he would ever admit it.

"You are freezing," he noted with a frown. "It is unwise to spend all day unprotected at this temperature."

"An hour or two," she shrugged, pouring herself a glass of wine, "and it helps clear my head. Cold is a small price to pay." After taking a larger sip than was necessary, she swallowed hard and did her best to rein in a sigh. "This city is driving me mad."

"Understandable." He slid the bottle closer to her, and she rewarded him with a warm smile.

Smart man.

"I think you need to get out of this place for a while," Varric said as he watched her top off her wine. "Go do something other than solve everyone else's problems."

"I agree," Fenris echoed. "You have more than earned time away from this... place."

He couldn't bring himself to say "city," Hawke noted. Because it wasn't. It was an oubliette.

"You forget my magnetic personality," she reminded them bitterly, tapping her fingers on the table. "Wherever I go, I'm sure to be followed. I have a lot of people with long arms and deep pockets _very_ unhappy with me."

"Maybe you haven't gone far enough," Varric suggested in a far-too-helpful tone, which didn't go unnoticed.

Fenris watched him curiously, setting down his wineglass. "If I did not know better, Varric," he said, "I would think you had something specific in mind."

The dwarf smiled innocently, shrugging.

"I hear Starkhaven is nice this time of year."

* * *

><p>The halls of the Chantry echoed Sebastian's footsteps as he walked the long path around the inner worship hall and into the library. The talk he'd had with Elthina was... enlightening. Difficult, but enlightening nonetheless.<p>

The Grand Cleric had always been a mother figure to him, and her stern advice never failed to disappoint that role. He had gone to visit her Grace, expected to be shackled to the Chantry pillars or ordered penance, but instead, she had very nearly shoved him out the door.

"The Maker has a path set for all of us, Sebastian," she said, handing him a well-worn copy of the Chant of Light – one of her favorites, he noted. "You have had two doors open for you, and denied both."

He began to protest, but she shushed him. "It has been several years, this conflict of yours. I tire of holding this same discussion on an almost monthly basis. You remain here in the chantry after enacting your vengeance and forswearing your vows. What are you holding onto here that is so precious to you?"

"The _Chantry_ is precious to me," he said earnestly, gripping the book in both hands. "All of the good I've done and the lessons I've learned have been in service."

"I believe you," she sighed, placing a hand over his on the leatherbound volume. "And He will always welcome you back with open arms. But you forget..." She met his eyes, trying to convey her message as straightforwardly as possible. "He would not lay upon you a heavier burden than you could bear."

He thought about her words as he pushed open the enormous reinforced doors in front of him. Elthina had seen his fears and told him to face them head-on, as he had known in his heart that she would.

He walked to one of the long tables, setting down several pieces of parchment and an inkwell at the blank expanse of workspace. It had been some time since he'd traveled, and the art of planning ahead was nothing to be undertaken lightly. He turned down the stacks to his right, and after scanning the labels, tugged loose a topographical map of the Free Marches. He returned to the table, unrolling it and spreading it out fully.

As he scanned northward from Kirkwall to Starkhaven, he noticed a small book within arm's reach that he hadn't seen there before. He reached for it, intending to put it on the re-shelving cart, but hesitated when he saw that it was a travel log of a mountaineer crossing the Vimmark mountains from Kirkwall and headed northward – one prospective path to his homeland.

Deeming it potentially useful, he placed it on the stool next to him and set off a second time, this time in search of a dockmaster's listing of the passenger ships from the last year. He had to explore all options, and it would be foolhardy to ignore boat travel when located on the Waking Sea.

This time, when he returned to place it atop the first book he'd found, there now lay a second book, an illustrated catalog of edible plants and shrubs along the Free Marches. Another smaller scroll sat squarely in the middle of his map, which turned out to contain a roughly-drawn map of trade routes stretching from the Waking Sea to Antiva.

Frowning, he spun around and surveyed the library. Aside from a few of the bookkeepers, the library seemed largely empty. His mystery helper was nowhere to be found, and he slowly turned his attention back to his research, though his shoulders were tense and he subconsciously confirmed that his quiver was full.

It happened twice more, and each time a few remarkably pertinent volumes magically appeared on the table, no matter how quickly he ran back after fetching what he'd sought. The final time, though, he laid eyes on the book his anonymous assistant had offered and sighed.

Precariously close to one corner sat a copy of Varric's latest product: _The Stone Temptress: Forges of Passion._

"Hawke," he called calmly, "the Chantry would like to thank you for your thoughtful donation, but must regretfully refuse."

Her laughter bounced off of the walls and she emerged from behind the Languages section, leaning against the aisle's end corner.

"Took you long enough. Must be because of the echo in here."

He held the book out to her, waving it a few times to prompt her to take the offending piece of questionable literature. She did so as she walked forward to survey his collection, tucking it into her satchel.

"I assume that Varric informed you of our conversation this morning," Sebastian said, free of any malice or bitterness.

"About as much as he tells anyone anything," she replied, adding another map to the pile. "You know. Bits and pieces and hints."

"I see." He placed his palms flat on the table, leaning forward to inspect the large topographical map more closely. "You must think me a fool, Hawke."

"Actually, I'm thinking the opposite." She sat on the edge of the table, crossing her ankles. "I'm glad you're taking the initiative and doing _something_. You've been so miserable these past few years." She ducked her head to catch his gaze, grinning. "And coming from me, that's saying something."

He chuckled, and she ruffled his hair. "See?" she said. "Feeling better already."

He felt some of the tension melt from his shoulders, and he smiled warmly at the woman next to him. "Seeing you never fails to cheer me."

Hopping down, Hawke nudged his shoulder with hers. "I'm immune to your cheap flattery, messere."

His smile faltered for the briefest moment, but he fought to keep it all the same as he turned his attention back to the map, trying to smother the sting. He had _meant _it.

Focused, Hawke leaned over next to him, reddish curls tumbling down across one shoulder. "The mountain pass will add a week to the journey."

He murmured an agreement, tracing one finger along the lower jagged lines. "And the foothills are treacherous this time of year, when the snowbanks become weak."

"This is useless, then," she said, tossing aside the mountaineer's log. She gathered up a few more in her arms, trotting off to the re-shelving cart. "So, when do we leave?"

Sebastian froze, then straightened up to look at her in confusion. Had he misheard?

"We?"

She dumped the small stack onto the rickety contraption, brushing the dust off of her leathers. "You didn't think I'd let you do this alone, did you?"

"But I-"

She flapped a hand at him, sending a wave of musty-smelling particles into his face. "I'm denying you the right to refuse. You've knowingly followed me into danger for years, and I would be a shit friend if I wouldn't even accompany you to a fancy party in exchange. You're a dear friend," she said, crossing her arms, "and I won't let you walk into a trap alone. Especially if there's food."

He dragged the back of his hand lightly across one cheek, hiding a smile behind his fingers as he rid himself of the dust. "You're sure? You will likely have to wear a dress at some point."

"Still better than darkspawn blood. Besides," she added thoughtfully, "I could use a vacation."

He arched one eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. "This is hardly a vacation, Hawke. It may well be the first step in my coup for my family's throne."

"Which is _like_ a vacation for me."

He couldn't argue that, and as he slumped his shoulders a bit in defeat, Hawke walked over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"I already said that I was coming with you," she said, "and so you'll have my help in any capacity you need."

He felt his heart lift a bit. "Hawke..."

"In exchange," she said, grinning, "you'll have to listen to my rambling when it gets late and I can't sleep. The whole trip."

Unable to keep the smirk from his face, Sebastian tilted his head. "How is that different from now?"

She swatted at him, grazing his ear, and he flinched away with a chuckle.

"You watch your mouth, _Ser,_" she glared. "It'll be just the two of us, and I'll know where you sleep."

"Of course."

He watched as she walked away, wondering what he'd done to have earned himself a friend in such a woman. Perhaps, he mused, this journey wouldn't be quite as excruciating as he'd thought.

Or lonely.

Hawke flagged down one of the pages by the door, dictating instructions and pressing a coin into his hand before jogging back to the table.

"I sent for Varric," she explained, snickering. "He stuck his nose into this, so now he's going to help."

* * *

><p>"So why am I here?"<p>

Hawke beamed at the dwarf as he walked in, looking as though he felt dirty for even setting foot in the building of worship. She loved seeing him suffer a little.

"You arranged it so that I'd sign up for this," she declared, "and now you're going to keep being helpful."

The dwarf snickered at the insinuation that he'd manipulated her at all. "What? I've always been a man who... _arranges_ things."

"Then _arrange _us a couple of horses and provisions for the trip."

Sebastian paused, glancing over the map again. "Horses? We hadn't yet decided to go by land."

"Boat'd be easier," Varric added, scratching his jaw. "Take passage to the main highway west of here, at least."

"Or even sail eastward and ride the river barges right into the city thoroughfare," Sebastian agreed.

"But we'd have to find a boat first of all, never mind wait for it to set off," Hawke pointed out. "It could be days."

"We have a few days' leeway." He handed her the invitation, and she frowned at the amount of frills and glittery accoutrements that dripped from the parchment. Was all of Starkhaven this froofy?

"Either this banquet is enormously important, or your people have yet to learn that it only takes one ribbon to keep a scroll shut."

"It is a royal event," he explained, "and my cousin, the current prince regent, will shortly be having his thirtieth name day."

"So it's a glorified name day party?"

"Much more than that." He tapped the writing with one finger. "That is the age by which the princes of Starkhaven have traditionally taken a wife. To solidify his claim, it is in his best interest to select a bride before breaking tradition."

Understanding, Hawke pursed her lips. This invitation wasn't just a simple invitation – it was a solicitation for those who wanted power and had unmarried daughters. "So it's a time for those with horses to put them in the race, and those without to ensure that their favorite comes out ahead."

Varric chuckled. "Your analogy is a little crude, Hawke."

"No," Sebastian sighed, "she is sadly accurate."

Hawke mentally checked the date, then glanced at the map again. "We'd have more of a time margin if we went on horseback."

"I needn't stay in the city itself for long."

"And," she continued, "if this _is_ a setup, then if we're ambushed when we're at sea, it'll be a lot harder to defend ourselves safely."

She saw a grin spread from one of Varric's ears to the other, and Sebastian was looking at her strangely.

"Hawke," the archer said slowly, "is there perhaps a reason you'd like to avoid sea travel?"

She shrugged, avoiding eye contact and instead trailing her gaze over the chart's finely-drawn mountain ranges. "Boats remind me of the trip over from Ferelden. Lots of bad memories there."

From his expression, she could tell he wasn't buying it.

"Hawke," he repeated, and she noted with a knot in her stomach that he sounded remarkably like her mother had when Mairead came home guilty of something. Except her mother hadn't had a thick Starkhaven accent.

She smiled brilliantly in response, the same tactic that had failed to mollify her mother for years. "What?"

He crossed his arms, frowning a little. "If you get seasick, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Traveling by ship doesn't agree with everyone."

"It's not the boat she doesn't agree with," Varric snickered. "It's the water."

"_Varric,_" she warned.

"Aye, seasickness," Sebastian repeated.

"Not exactly, Choir Boy. It's when there's a... _meeting of worlds_ that there's a problem."

"Varric!"

It was too late. It took only seconds before she saw the telltale smile on Sebastian's face as he turned to her.

"You cannot _swim_?"

"Ferelden is made of dirt," she snapped, glaring. "I only ever spent summers in Highever at a friend's estate. Which was entirely landlocked. So, no. I never learned."

He chuckled. "That's–"

"If you say 'adorable,'" she interrupted, "or anything else remotely patronizing, I will stab you. Here, in the Chantry."

He closed his mouth obligingly, still smiling. She turned back to the maps, and heard Varric murmur behind her.

"It _is_ cute, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," Sebastian agreed.

"I'm _right here,_" she hissed, spinning back around. "And that never leaves this room, understood? I can count on one hand the people who know and are still alive: Bethany, the Arishok, and the two of you."

"The Arishok knew?" asked the archer.

"Came up in conversation."

"What did he do?"

Frowning at the memory, Hawke picked up a book sullenly. "Bastard threw me in the harbor."

The two men burst out laughing, and she sighed. "Lesson in overcoming weakness, he said. It didn't go over well."

"No," Sebastian said, calming down enough to speak, "I would imagine not." Gently, he pushed aside the books covering the Vimmark mountains on the map, running his finger along the line from Kirkwall.

Hawke watched him silently, dreading his next words. And wondering the best way to stay in the hold for the entire journey without coming up deck even once.

"There's a valley here in the lowlands," he said finally, indicating the point in question. "It borders the Planasene forest, which makes it an unpopular route for merchants, but roads do exist. We should have no trouble."

Relief blossomed across Hawke's features, and she fought the urge to hug the man around his chest. Never had his thick accent sounded more attractive than when he was saying that there would be no boat involved.

"Varric will see about provisions and horses," she said, eyeing the dwarf pointedly, "and I'll take care of things at my estate. Two days should be more than enough."

"Agreed."

As Sebastian walked off in search of a better map of the valley, Hawke turned to her best friend.

"You sure this is a good idea, Varric?"

He smirked up at her, shoving her with one shoulder playfully. "I don't encourage good ideas, Hawke. I encourage entertaining ones."

"Right. How could I forget?" She bit back a smile, hooking an elbow around his neck and giving him a tight, brief hug. He looked after all of them, and she knew that he would never admit to his role in their lives. He didn't look for credit, and she knew he'd hate it if she told him that he was a good man.

"Hey," she said quietly, "while I'm gone, could I ask one thing of you?"

"I know," he replied, patting her hand. "I'll keep an eye on Sunshine, maybe even send Ogre her way."

"Thanks." She kissed the top of his head, smiling at the idea of the mabari staying in the circle. "You want any souvenirs from Starkhaven?"

"Bring me back a good story." After a moment, he added thoughtfully: "And maybe a classy ribbon for Bianca."


	2. Deep Thoughts and Bandits

"I think I'm going to name him Gryphon."

Sebastian looked over as Hawke patted the neck of her mount, a beautiful copper-colored bay.

"You're naming him?"

"Of course. How else is he going to know when I'm talking to him?" She scratched the horse behind the ears and between them up to the white blaze on his face. "You're so handsome. Yes, you are."

Sebastian chuckled quietly to himself, watching them interact and remembering how they'd come into possession of the animals. When the two of them had visited the stables, he had chosen a demure gray roan male who had trotted over happily when offered a few chunks of carrot. Easy temperament was something prized in horses meant for riding, and the prince had a feeling that he'd be grateful to have a companion with such an agreeable nature along.

Especially when he saw Hawke's method of selection. He watched from the fence, resting his forearms on the wood and trying not to laugh.

She was in the middle of the pasture, hands on her hips after having run alongside some of its residents for a few minutes. She whistled, and dozens of sets of ears perked up. A few moved closer, but eyed her empty hands warily.

"Come on," she called, "who wants to go on an adventure?" A few carrots stuck out of her pocket, and it was clear that a lot of the horses eyeing the vegetables were maintaining their distance until otherwise bribed.

One or two came over to push their noses into her hands, and her face lit up at the contact. She was too distracted to notice a third horse slowly sidling up to her, and ever-so-gently tugging at the leaves of one carrot in a practiced stealth.

Leaning on his elbows, Sebastian clasped his hands and pressed his mouth against them to hide his smile, but said nothing.

The enormous thief managed to empty her pocket beneath her notice, taking advantage of her interest in the horses approaching her from the front. It wasn't until she reached for the now-empty pocket that she realized, frowning and looking on the ground to her left and right. She turned to Sebastian and mouthed "What?" at which he pointed behind her. She spun, catching the horse with one half-eaten prize sticking out of his mouth, which he calmly continued to eat as she watched.

She stared at him for a moment before whistling, and when his ears perked up, she grinned and scratched his nose. He made no move to go, just chuffed warm air across the top of her head as he investigated her hair.

"Hey," she signaled to the owner, "I want this one!"

"You sure?" the stablemaster called back. "He's a sneak."

"I know," she confirmed, running her hands along his neck and happily pressing her forehead against his massive face. "That's why I want him."

Watching them now, Sebastian might have had doubts about her unorthodox method of selection, but there was no denying that the two had bonded quickly.

"Gryphon," she said brightly. "Gryphon, Gryphon, Gryphon."

He sighed. "Yes, it's a fine name."

She smiled sheepishly, ducking her head. "Sorry," she apologized, "I just haven't been this excited in a long time."

"You've been this excited for the three days we've been traveling."

"Is it annoying you?"

"No," he said, avoiding a low-hanging branch to the face, "just surprising. The trip promises to fluctuate between life-threatening and frightfully dull, and nowhere between."

"I suppose." She pursed her lips. "Though it could be that I'm simply happy to escape Kirkwall, even if it's to strap myself into a frilly gown and listen to palace gossip and use impeccable manners when I really just want to pull my chair up to the front of the banquet table and have at it."

He grinned. "Well, if it's a Starkhaven banquet, there's a strong chance it may be quite lively. Flooded with music and dancing." His voice suddenly took on a bitter tone, and the grin faded somewhat. "At least, in my parents' time. Maker only knows what the latest opportunists to put my cousin on the throne have done to my homelands."

Hawke rushed to be reassuring. "I'm sure it hasn't changed much. You even remember these roads, don't you?"

"Somewhat," he admitted. "We're but a day's ride from the edges of Starkhaven's outer lands. We should start encountering villages from then on."

She nodded. "We haven't seen signs of people since before the valley." She paused, and held out a hand for him to do the same. "Speaking of which..."

He had long stopped asking for explanations whenever she did that, only understood that it was in his best interest to obey. Sure enough, as they fell quiet, he could hear footfalls and muffled voices coming from the trees on either side.

In moments, a group of raggedly-dressed men burst out of the bushes ahead of them, hunkering menacingly and wielding abused-looking daggers and clubs. The most armored among them (and the one with the most impressive facial hair) led the front, his beard obscuring what was either an enthusiastic grin or a scowl.

"What've we got here," he drawled, spreading his hands. "Someone who wants to use the roads?"

"They gots to pay the tolls!" one of his followers shouted, sending the others into harsh laughter.

Sebastian shook his head, full of pity for the poor fools. "It would be best if you simply let us pass," he advised, sincerely out of concern for their well-being. "Threatening my companion is unwise."

"Hey!" the thug shouted angrily, "we'll be the ones telling you what to do here!" He eyed their mounts greedily. "Starting with hand over the horses."

The archer could almost audibly hear Hawke's patience snapping like a thread, and he grimaced. She dismounted, wearing a thin, tight-lipped smile that anyone who knew her well would recognize as a warning.

They'd _had_ to threaten the horse, of all things.

"You want him," she said slowly, "Come on. Take him."

The group rushed her, and Sebastian dismounted with a sigh, unhooking his bow.

_Let's see if we can keep her from killing everyone, shall we?_

* * *

><p>They made camp that evening in a thicket clearing not too far from the main road. It took no time at all to build a fire, and Hawke set to settling the horses for the night while Sebastian offered to collect kindling. She'd just finished when he returned as well, an armload of wood under one arm and a pair of plump hares under the other.<p>

"You caught two rabbits in ten minutes?" she asked, staring in disbelief.

"You sound impressed." He stooped to let the wood gently roll into a pile. "I am sorely tempted to follow Varric's example and tell you that I killed both with a single arrow."

"Can you actually do that?"

He just smiled up at her, saying nothing.

"You're an awful tease," she sighed, throwing a twig at him.

He caught it in midair, adding it to their small fire.

"Hey," she protested, "that was mine!"

"Then you shouldn't have thrown it," he chided, "nor called me a tease."

"It's true, though." She took a seat beside him, snapping the kindling into more manageable pieces. "That face, that accent, and a vow of chastity? Must be a crime somewhere."

He raised an eyebrow, but sat gently next to her all the same. "You've no need to flatter me. I've already brought you a rabbit."

"It's true!" she said as she continued. "Actually, you told me once that you'd forsworn all your vows to the Chantry the day you swore to avenge your parents. Aside from your own morals, there was nothing preventing you from ravaging the city at your will. Were you a different man," she said thoughtfully, "you could have practically been a public menace to women."

There was a certain embarrassment to his voice as he spoke, adjusting the stones around the base of the flame with a stick. "You did not know me in my younger days. I may well have narrowly escaped being that man. The Chantry saved me."

"And that's why you've stayed? Because you're afraid of turning back into that?"

"No," he said firmly. "As I am now, I could not."

"Good for you." She snickered, shaking her head. "I can't picture you living a life of debauchery, anyway. _I_ may have no qualms about fucking for fun and profit, but you might have an issue or two with it."

He raised an eyebrow at that, as she suspected he would.

"You're able separate lust and love to that degree?"

Hawke shrugged. "Women can do it as well as men. And in a few cases, even better."

She had an inkling that he was picturing Isabela in his mind from the expression on his face, and she smirked. Prime example.

"I..." he started, then paused to consider his words. "I had not heard you speak of it before tonight."

"Well," she said, leaning in closer, "don't tell anyone, but I'm secretly a romantic at heart." She tapped a finger to her lips, as one would shush a child. "I probably could be convinced to only mindlessly ravage the right someone for the rest of my life."

"_You,_ Hawke? Champion of Kirkwall, tied down? Never!"

Laughing, she reached for her daggers threateningly. "It's a secret you take to your grave!"

"Aye," he said, a twinkle behind his blue eyes, "yet my opinion of you is forever changed."

She groaned, and he pulled a few thicker sticks from the pile, stripping them with an arrowhead and pointing the ends.

"I envy you," he said after spending a time focused on his handiwork.

"How so?"

"I've..." His hands stopped, and she saw his fingers press into the sharp sides of the arrowhead he was using.

"I have never bedded someone I loved," he finished, resuming his motions. "I can only imagine the experience it must be."

Her curiosity overriding her common sense glaring at her not to press, Hawke inched closer. "Never?"

"I've honored a vow of chastity most of my adult life."

"No, I mean..." She tried to think of a way to put it delicately, but failed miserably and went for blunt instead. "You've had plenty of women, right?"

He turned to her, frowning. "Hawke, I was an incorrigible _rake._ What makes you think I cared for anyone or anything other than myself in those days? There were brief and shallow infatuations, true enough, but nothing more."

She shrugged. "I suppose I have a hard time picturing you that selfish."

"And glad though I am to hear it, a part of my heart can't help but wish that I had let myself fall prey to matters of affection. Just once." He tossed the shredded bark into the fire. "Just to see what it was like."

"If you take the throne, you'll marry."

"If I take the throne," he replied, "I've accepted that I'll likely take a wife based on position. Though I will do my utmost to care for her, in my way."

"Well," Hawke said brightly, "then I hope she's stubborn, loud, and good with a blade. A perfect foil for you."

He chuckled at that, picking up the rabbits. "A good, stout Starkhaven woman, then."

She reached for them as well, unhooking a small dagger from one boot. "Here, let me."

"No need."

And as Hawke watched, he made a few expert cuts along the legs and nape, then pulled nearly the entire skin off in one deft, gruesome tug.

"You can cook?!" she exclaimed, examining his handiwork.

"Of course I can cook," Sebastian replied, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "One of the Chantry's largest services is feeding the hungry. Everyone lends a hand."

Chin in hand, Hawke sighed and watched him mount the hare on a stake over the open flames. "I appreciate a man who cooks."

"You deserve one," he said, not missing a beat and picking up the second animal.

She stared at him for a moment in disbelief.

"How can you say things like that so easily?"

He looked up at her briefly before returning his attention to the task at hand. "Because I believe them."

Hawke couldn't do anything but laugh and ruffle his hair a bit, enjoying the way color rose to his face at the gesture. "You'll make an excellent prince."

It took no time at all for the rabbits to cook, but they burned through the small supply of kindling in the process.

Hawke stood, a small "oomph!" escaping her lungs as she brushed off her backside. "I'll take care of it this time."

Sebastian shook his head, joining her on his feet. "It's too dark now for either of us to go alone. We should be able to find enough for the night relatively close by."

"As you say." She hopped over a small briar, tearing dead branches from the trees they clung to. She could hear the archer behind her doing the same, each step crunching leaves and twigs beneath his boots.

"You know," she started after a few minutes of quiet, "the qunari don't believe in physical affection much, if at all." She glanced at him over one shoulder. "Just hearkening back to our earlier conversation."

"Ah."

She wiped crumbling, rotten bark from her gloves as she searched.

"But they clearly form attachments," he called tentatively, and she could hear the strain in his voice as he did his best not to open fresh wounds.

"Right, they do. But they show it in ways they consider more practical, like," a few more branches on the pile, "polishing one another's armor or caring for weapons. That's considered real intimacy. The closest thing they have to physical affection is headbutting."

She could hear the smile through his voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"Headbutting," she repeated matter-of-factly. "To congratulate one another on a victory or to greet a friend you haven't seen in some time or that sort of thing." She gimaced, flinching as the memory brought sympathetic pains dancing across her skull. "I had headaches for weeks until I got used to it."

"It does sound relatively unpleasant."

"To be honest," she said, "I think it's something that humans just don't appreciate."

Sebastian sounded less than convinced. "I mean no offense," he said, "but I'm not so sure that it translates well."

"No?"

_All right_,Hawke thought as she turned and dropped her collection of wood. _Challenge accepted_.

"Hey," she called over. "Come here for a second."

He did so, looking puzzled.

She took his armload of sticks and added it to hers on the forest floor. "Now," she said, taking his hands and guiding them around her waist, "hands here."

He began to protest and draw them away, but she simply put them right back.

"I have a point," she explained, "I promise."

And Maker bless him, he kept them there as she slid her hands behind his neck. He stiffened, a nervous laugh making its way up through his throat.

"Just for clarity, do you intend to headbutt or kiss me?"

"Neither," she said. "The thought of either _clearly_ makes you squirm. And while that's incredibly entertaining, I'm just trying to show you something."

She interlocked her fingers at the nape of his neck and pulled him down to meet her, pressing her forehead to his.

"This."

She felt him relax against her, and she smiled, draping her arms across his shoulders.

"See?" She closed her eyes, enjoying his warmth. "Perfectly chaste."

"I apologize for doubting you," he said, shifting to accommodate their height difference. "Although my skepticism at the word 'headbutt' was completely warranted."

She laughed, and he pulled her in close enough that she could feel his warm chuckle vibrating in his chest. His breath brushed over her cheeks, and the comfort of another person's touch was far too welcome.

This was getting frighteningly close, she thought, internally panicking a little. She had meant to demonstrate, prove her point, and go. Not get sucked into Sebastian's land of hugs and rainbows and the Chant of Light. It was dangerous and scary there.

She was silently plotting an escape strategy when she felt him let out a small sigh of what sounded like relief, and his words pinned her in place.

"I am truly glad you're here."

He brought his hands to her jawline and tilted her head down, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

Hawke's burning need to run left her like a gust of wind, and she cursed her soft side as she let herself be held a little longer. She wasn't usually a sucker for most things. But she did have a disconcerting tendency to cave when someone bared their soul.

"You know I would never let you do something like this alone," she said, hesitantly - and a little awkwardly - patting him on the shoulder.

"I do know," he replied, resting his chin on the top of her head. "And I often wonder what good I might have done to have earned such devotion."

_Damn it all to hell_, that voice in Hawke's head sighed. Now they were practically snuggling, and his face being so close to hers was starting to bring out some of her not-quite-appropriate impulses from her less restrained days.

"Sebastian," she warned aloud, "if you don't pull away, I'm going to kiss you."

"_What?_" The hands on her skin released her, and he looked down. "Hawke, you–"

A flurry of snapping dry brush and voices caught their attention, and torchlight appeared and disappeared behind nearby trees.

"More bandits," Hawke said, visibly relieved. "Oh, thank the Maker."

A quick brawl was just what she needed, and she was all too happy to comply with Sebastian's request to avoid killing, opting to sheath her daggers and instead _punch_ the ragtag group into submission.

As they watched the pitiful band retreat, limping, into the darkness, Sebastian saw Hawke casually wiping the blood from her knuckles.

"You are a frightening woman," he said. "I frequently wonder at your skewed sense of compassion."

"They're not dead, and neither are we. Everyone is happy." She grinned as she turned back to camp. "Come on. I'll take first watch."

* * *

><p>"Would you really have kissed me last night, in the thicket?"<p>

Hawke groaned, steering Gryphon around a few fallen tree branches. "Did you _really_ have to bring that up?"

"I find myself curious."

"And I find myself in need of something to throw at you."

"That may be so, but remember that _you_ were the one who declared it." Also, Sebastian thought to himself, he wanted to know more now that she had shown she was irritated by it.

They rode in silence a while longer, him not pushing for answers and her not offering any up. He had almost resigned himself to yet another instance of Hawke refusing to answer something she found uncomfortable when she spoke.

"It was just the atmosphere," she said flatly. "And old habits die hard."

His mind didn't know what to make of this, both slightly disappointed and equally as entertained. He decided to focus on the latter, chasing the prospect of learning something about Hawke's guarded years in Ferelden. "You would count kissing people among your old habits? With the likes of sucking your thumb and sleeping with a particular blanket?"

"I wasn't much older than that age when I started," she said, going on to admit, "and it only got worse as I became a young woman. And I was, according to my mother, particularly egregious when we summered in Highever, with a family who wouldn't turn in my father or sister and who happened to have a son not much older than I was."

He saw the smile creep across her face slowly. He knew that specific smile, though it had been long since banished from his own face.

"You must have had that boy at your heels like a shadow," he said.

She laughed, shaking her head. "Fergus. I haven't thought about him for _years_. They would find us sneaking kisses in the larder, behind hay bales, on the roof at night – and then our mothers would fetch us and give us a sound tongue-lashing that did nothing but fan the flames."

"He was your first love, then."

"Hardly," she said, and he arched an eyebrow as color crept up lightly to her cheeks. "I was like that with the stablehands, the cook's son, the maids' daughters, even Fergus' sister once or twice."

He froze, and he silently cursed the horse beneath him for being sensitive enough to _also_ stop in its tracks. It was only momentary, though, and he prayed that Hawke wouldn't have noticed.

"Other girls," he managed, clearing his throat. "Even at that age?"

"They were softer and smelled better than the boys," she said with a shrug. "And both genders meant I could kiss twice as many people."

"How very practical of you."

"I was a child," she said as she patted Gryphon affectionately. "I didn't understand what it meant until later. And I'm glad I did fool around so much while I was younger, as now I've spent almost the entirety of my adult life in Kirkwall and I'm covered in _massive_ scars."

Sebastian frowned at the mention of her scars, knowing full well from past discussions that they were a sore topic for her - and a subject where they had previously butted heads. Still, he was unable to keep himself from speaking his mind.

"You do know that you are a beautiful woman."

She smiled bitterly, but didn't look up. "I have a nice _face_," she said, "but the dragon claw scars and enormous gash over my heart alone are enough to send most running even before I'm bare to the waist."

His blood boiled as he prickled in sympathetic defense of his friend. "If they cannot see those wounds as proof of your accomplishments and sacrifices, then they are not worthy of you. Look at me, Hawke." She turned at her name, and he fixed his eyes on hers, completely sincere. "You _will_ find that person."

Her expression hardened, and she looked away. "I did find him," she said grimly, "and he left with the rest of his people."

The chantryman could have kicked himself. Of all the things to say, he didn't know _why_ he hadn't thought this would dredge up the Arishok.

Hawke rode a few paces ahead, and he only needed to look at her posture to tell that she was still tense, likely masking her more honest level of uneasiness. He knew her enough to know that her fits of malaise were hard to break, and he'd lost count of the vases thrown at his head whenever he insisted that she speak her feelings aloud and openly to him.

Pointing out that he was ordained to hear confessions had only ever made it worse.

Over the years, though, his persistence was begrudgingly more well-received, and he could acutely remember the first time she actively sought him out for comfort. He had very nearly excused himself to the rectory and wept, but thankfully managed to hold himself together enough to offer a listening ear and some form of solace.

His hard work was well-timed, as not a year to the day, Leandra was killed. And there was a week that followed where he and Varric, the only two Hawke had allowed in the estate at the time, said not an unkind word to one another as they took shifts reminding their leader to eat and open the windows.

A woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders, and she had the most human anxiety about her looks.

He tapped his mount's side with his heels, bringing him up to speed with Hawke. Stretching over, he took her hand in his and squeezed lightly, but didn't seek eye contact.

"You could be covered in soot," he said quietly, "dressed in a burlap sack, and _still_ be lovely. And I will tell you so every day for as long as I am with you."

After a moment, he could feel her squeeze him back, and he smiled at the contact.

"Flatterer," she muttered.

"Never," he replied.

And that would have been a lovely, shining moment of camaraderie and friendship if an arrow hadn't promptly sank into a tree in front of them.

They both halted quickly, horses voicing protest as they spun in the direction of the arrow – only to see yet _another_ group of grizzled woodsmen creeping out of the trees and onto the road.

"More bandits," Sebastian sighed. "And I doubt that they've learned from their brethren."

"You know," Hawke frowned, "you'd think twenty broken noses and dozens of cracked ribs would send a warning flag."

"These men haven't turned to barbarism because of their intelligence," he said, caution creeping into his voice, "so excessive violence is not needed."

She groaned and dismounted, flexing her fingers. "Fine," she said, "but you take care of those with bows."

"Of course." He reached for his bow and quickly fired off several shots in succession, pinning the clumsy archers to nearby trees by their leathers or snapping the bows against their hands. He'd learned many ways to avoid killing in his years of training, and the extra time it took to line up a more precise, nonlethal shot was worth the risk.

As he worked, he could see Hawke running about in a flurry out of the corner of his eye. Where she learned to render a man unconscious so quickly was a mystery to him, though he appreciated her restraint.

It was precisely because he kept an eye on her back that he shouted a warning when one of the larger, brutish thugs advanced from the brush. She spun and reached for her daggers, but her hands twitched and she only managed to dodge out of the way of his club at the last possible moment.

"Damnit," she hissed, rolling back to her feet.

"Hawke!" he called, sliding out from behind his cover. He was at her side in but a few strides, shooting an arrow through the man's foot. As he howled and dropped his club, Hawke pulled her would-be savior behind a thick tree.

"I appreciate the assist," she said through clenched teeth as an arrow flew past them, "but now we have bigger problems."

"But I couldn't just–"

"I know, I know." She ducked her head around the side, then pulled it back as a hail of bolts and daggers followed in its path. "Thirty or so left," she said. "From what I can see." Her brow furrowed, and he could see her running the scenarios in her head. "I don't know if I can get us out of this without killing anyone," she said finally. "Even bad shots as they are, I don't think I can get more than three or four down without at least one arrow landing."

"I understand." His eyes narrowed as he gripped his bow tighter. "I am sorry for having put you in this position."

"Don't be," she said. "I've survived worse." She grinned at him reassuringly, and he nodded.

"Then what do you suggest?"

She thumbed toward their right, where a line of trees about as thick around as a grown man stood two or three deep. "I'll run there for cover, then send a couple of tremors through the ground." She ran a finger along the lyrium veins on her daggers, and they sprang to life at her touch. "That should paralyze most and panic the rest. We can use that."

"Understood." He pulled an arrow and crouched at the ready. "I'll wait for your mark."

She bolted like a rabbit, and he heard the sounds of a scuffle among the bandits, but nothing from Hawke. She'd made it through. Now he had to wait.

To his surprise, however, the noise coming from the road continued long past the time it would take Hawke to dash twenty feet to the trees, and he couldn't make sense of it.

Against his better judgment, he pressed his back to the tree and peered toward the spot Hawke had said she would aim for. Sure enough, there she was.

Except she wasn't alone.

She held her hands up in surrender as a man stood at her back reached around to hold a blade at her throat. And she didn't look smug about it, meaning this hadn't been part of her plan.

With the bandits distracted amongst themselves, Sebastian silently crept up behind the both of them.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he heard the swordsman say. "Try anything and you bleed."

It was at this point, behind the safety of the trees, that Sebastian drew his bow and pressed the point of the arrowhead into the back of the man threatening his companion.

"I disagree," he said calmly. "You won't get the chance."

The man froze, but made no move to release his captive.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Hawke said cheerfully. "I made a friend."

"So you have." He pressed the point further into the skin. "Drop your weapon."

"And leave you armed," the man snorted. "Not bloody likely."

"_Drop it," _Sebastian repeated, tone icy.

"Aidan!" A deep voice, thick with a Starkhaven accent called from their side. "Do as he says. These are no bandits."

Sebastian hesitated. That voice. He _knew_ that voice.

Slowly, the man in front of him lowered his sword, and Hawke ducked away.

"Not to seem ungrateful," she said defensively, "but if you're not bandits, who are you?"

Sebastian lowered his bow, wondering the same. As he turned to the source of the cease command, however, recognition hit him in the chest harder than any kickback.

"Bann MacDougall?"


	3. The Red Bear

**A/N:** Okay, I felt bad about leaving it on a cliffhanger. Have another chapter.

I am such a wuss. ;_;

* * *

><p>"Bann MacDougall?"<p>

The man in question was a giant, roughly as tall as a qunari and similarly built, but with a full, thick beard, blazing red hair, and a fair bit more paunch. His armor bore a pair of golden ram's horns emblazoned on the chestpiece, and as she took a second look, the men who had wiped the road with the bandits all wore the same sigil.

Hawke lowered her hands, but didn't relax quite yet. Not everyone you recognize is a friend.

"You know him?" she asked.

"I should say so," Sebastian said, tucking his bow away. "He and my father were inseparable."

The bann frowned, blinked twice, and leaned in to get a better look. When understanding dawned on him, he laughed a loud, booming laugh that could have woken the dead.

"As I live and breathe!" he exclaimed. "Sebastian Vael! It's been what, five years?"

"At least that," the archer said with a smile, turning to Hawke. "This is Bann MacDougall," he explained, "who was head of my father's guardsmen. He saw me grow from a wee thing to a young man!"

Hawke saw the smile fade, and her friend's face pale. It was then that she understood: _Oh no,_ that look said. _He remembers my_ old_ self._

Hawke smirked, easing back her shoulders. Ah, this had the potential to be absolutely hilarious.

"Mairead," she introduced herself to the Bann, holding out her hand.

He gripped her forearm and shook it firmly, a broad smile under his bushy moustache. "Guinn MacDougall," he replied. "Bann of Shallervale of Starkhaven."

"Bann?" She raised an eyebrow. "Starkhaven is big enough to have its own bannorn?"

"Mostly fields and hillside," Sebastian explained, "and not nearly as large as, say, Ferelden. Did you not know?"

"No, not at all."

"Then," the Bann asked, "what _do_ ye know about our fair lands?"

"Well," she started, ticking them off on her fingers, "It's large, borders Antiva, built on a river, and its men all have accents that drive Kirkwall women into a frenzy."

The bear-man had a glint in his eye as he heard that last part. "Women like yourself, then?"

She smiled up at him placidly. "I'm Fereldan," she clarified. "We're not that easy."

He bellowed a laugh again, clapping her on the shoulder and almost knocking the breath from her lungs. "I like this one! Your taste's manage t'improve, whelp!"

Hawke glimpsed Sebastian's face in her peripheral vision, and she fought down a snicker. She'd never seen him this uncomfortable when it didn't involve vulgarity. This was _fascinating._

"Bann." A well-muscled man with green eyes and dirty blonde hair pulled back into a plait at the nape of his neck dragged over one of the now-bound bandits. "One of them's awake."

"Ah, good." He squatted down to the captive's eye level, then cursed under his breath. "Where're my manners today?" he exclaimed, roughly tossing the half-conscious man aside. "We've a lady present. This is Eoin Dunaidh, my second."

Hawke bit back a laugh as she clasped the blonde man's wrist, and he gave her a sympathetic smile. "Mairead," she said.

"Eoin," he replied. "A pleasure, my lady."

"Now that th' formalities are over," the Bann said, grabbing a fistful of rope and propping the bandit up against a tree, "it's in your best interest t'speak."

The bandit coughed, then looked up with wide eyes at the behemoth of a man in front of him.

"W-we been out here for near a fortnight," he stammered. "Lorran said it was a way to make coin where we just sat around an' jumped passersby."

"How many's 'we?'"

"Maybe a hundred fifty? We... wasn't very orderly," he admitted. "Just kind of swarmed people in groups." He looked to Hawke and Sebastian, who stood a short distance away. "Thought we could sell their armor and horses for a good price. So we followed 'em for a while and then... you know."

Hawke frowned at his story. "So if you'd seen us so early on, why wait to attack?"

He shrugged. "Men liked the stories you was telling. Something about girls kissing other girls."

The Bann snorted and turned to Sebastian. "Seems ye haven't changed much."

Hawke snickered, and the archer sighed. Ignoring him, she continued to question the captured thug. "You're lucky I'd been asked not to kill unless necessary," she said, hands on her hips. "If I'd lit up my daggers, you and your men would be in a lot of trouble. And a lot of pieces. Is that worth a few horses and bags of other people's junk?"

The company turned to her almost all at once, staring.

"You took down twenty bandits with your bare hands?" Eoin asked in disbelief.

"Not by choice," she said, glaring at Sebastian pointedly. "But we do what we must."

After a pause, the Bann leaned over towards her a bit, querying politely, "Pardon my asking, lady, but are ye yet married?"

"No," she said, crossing her arms. "Are you proposing? Because I've always wondered what it was like to be wife to an enormous orange grizzly bear."

He and his men burst out laughing, and he straightened up with a nod of approval in her direction. "No need t' get so defensive; I'd've just liked to congratulate th' man! Though I do like th' fire ye've got in ye."

"Hawke," Sebastian warned gently from beside her, "be nice."

"Hawke?" The Bann suddenly wasn't smiling as he held up a hand to silence the others. "Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall?"

Ah, there it was. As always.

"One and the same," she said slowly, gauging their reactions, "though right now, it's Champion of Dirt Highway in the Middle of Damn Nowhere."

That did earn her a chuckle, though the Bann swept her form with an appraising look. "Explains it," he said. "Thought ye'd be taller."

"Everyone always does."

He motioned to his followers, who started gathering the bandits up into a barred wagon. "Well, my lady, ye're most welcome in my lands, and seeing as ye're traveling with th' whelp, th' keep'd be honored t' have guests."

"I'm not sure," she replied, slightly uncomfortable. "That's far too generous of you. I have to admit, I'm not accustomed to accepting -"

" 'Course," he continued, scratching his beard, "could always return th' favor by helping clear th' rest of th' bandits."

He winked, and she beamed up at him. Those were terms she was happy to accept.

"Sebastian?" she asked, turning to look up at the archer. "Any objections?"

He turned to MacDougall. "Do you plan on executing the bandits?"

The Bann stared at him, confusion plainly written across his face. "Not if we can help it. Rather lock them up or put them t' work."

"Then if Hawke has no further objections, neither do I. We thank you for your hospitality."

He turned to collect the horses, and Hawke saw a deeply puzzled frown cross the Bann's face.

"What in th' Maker's name," he murmured, "was that boy on about?"

"Years in the Chantry will do that to you," she said.

He looked at her, eyes wide, then back to Sebastian, then back to her.

"What," he exclaimed, "ye mean it actually _took?!"_

She burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>The Shallervale keep was two days out, and they still had something in the area of fifty bandits to arrest along the way.<p>

"We'd heard reports," Eoin explained to Hawke as they walked, their mounts in tow. "The Bann set out immediately to investigate."

"A man of action," she nodded. "He's a good Bann, then, one that looks after his people."

"Aye," Sebastian said. "I remembered him as such. I would often travel to the keep as a child when my father and brothers had business in Shallervale." His mind flooded with disjointed images of long stretches of pasture and halls filled with tapestries, the smell of cedar suddenly as strong in his nose as if he was there.

"Is it a big territory?"

"The largest, if the borders remain the same."

He watched as her expression disappeared into deep thought, and she looked to the Bann as he led the march. "A strong ally, then."

Her tone caught him by surprise, but it occurred to him that she was right. If he were to stake his claim to the throne, he'd need supporters. For that, the most powerful, most recognizable Bann would prove to be a very commanding presence alongside him.

Eoin regarded him carefully, and Sebastian got the distinct impression that he was being assessed. "The prince intends to campaign for the throne, then?" he asked.

"My cousin Goran is a puppet," Sebastian said firmly, bolstered at the conviction that came from having his feet on his homeland's soil. "Starkhaven needs a firm guide with his own mind. She always has."

Eoin looked pleasantly taken aback. "Well spoken, highness." He glanced toward the Bann. "The Bann feels the same, as do we all. I'd expect you to have his full endorsement if he heard you with talk like that."

The archer laughed nervously. "I cannot claim to share your confidence. I was not always as I am now."

A sly smile crossed the guardsman's face. "Ah, yes. He's mentioned you in stories from the old days."

Sebastian sighed, but Hawke patted him reassuringly on the back. "They could have been _good_ stories," she offered. "At least the Bann didn't have any daughters your age when you were your more dangerous self, right?"

Sebastian's face fell, and Eoin turned away to stifle his laughter. Hawke paled. "Oh, no."

"Two," Sebastian revealed, remembering their faces well. "One three seasons older and one two years my junior."

"_Please_ tell me you didn't."

He waved his hands frantically. "Maker, no! But the Bann is overprotective to the point of legend."

"He once caught a village boy reading the younger daughter poetry from outside her window," Eoin leaned in, whispering, "and the boy woke up the next morning stark naked save for a sheepskin wrapped around him, on all fours and tied to a fence without any memory of how he got there."

Hawke covered her mouth as her shoulders shook, and the laughter in the guardsman's eyes was the easy kind of comfortable of people who were taken with her, Sebastian recognized. He suddenly found himself feeling oddly defensive of his relationship with the Champion, though he could think of no reason to be other than this easygoing interloper who had caught her attention.

She called his name, and he turned to her, leaning down a bit. "Yes, Hawke?"

She smiled, and the knots around his stomach eased.

"I like Starkhaven so far."

* * *

><p>They had fought (and counted) another pack of thugs before reaching a village at nightfall. The inn was expecting them, and had set up the disused back stables accordingly.<p>

As the men shed the bulkier parts of their armor and the inn's workers brought supper, Hawke sat herself next to the Bann as he looked over a map.

"Twenty," she said. "Meaning that there's another group out there."

His rich accent made him nearly incomprehensible when he wasn't bothering to enunciate. "Probably in th' hillside a few miles aught the keep. High traffic."

She studied the map markers closely. "If we'll be so close to your home, it'll be easier to clean the blood off later."

He stared at her for a moment, but cracked a smile. "Ye don't try t' impress with cordiality and etiquette," he observed. "Thought ye were high-born."

"I was born in the dirt," she said plainly. "Blood counts for nothing when the darkspawn come, and they won't spare you no matter how much coin you throw at them." She fought down the image of Carver's corpse as she'd taken his bracers. She'd later had them commissioned into cuffs for herself and Bethany, and they stared up at her from her wrists. "I reclaimed our title for my mother, when we'd lost all other family to the blight and templars. Maker knows I didn't want it, but it was the last thing that held ties to the kin she missed so badly."

She gestured to the crest on her pendant, and he took a closer look.

"About as much as I feel like showing it around," she said, almost sheepishly. "Rather stab my way up a mountain of spiders than sit through formal dinners and audiences."

He laughed, and took the platter of food offered to him. "I've a daughter your age," he said, cracking a roll in half. "Can castrate a sheep with her teeth. Think ye'd get on well."

Hawke tucked her necklace back in with a broad grin. "I'm sure we will."

A flash of white to her left caught her attention, and she looked up to see Sebastian standing over her with two plates.

"You brought me food?"

"I know you too well," he replied, bending gracefully to place one in her lap. "Though I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all." She patted the space next to her invitingly. "The Bann was just telling me about his daughters."

"Cendre and Aeryn," he said as he sat cross-legged by her side. "Are they well?"

"Aye," MacDougall said, eyeing him warily. "My Cendre's recently married and expecting her first."

"My heartfelt congratulations," Sebastian said, smiling warmly. "She'll make an excellent mother. I remember she used to chase me around the keep with kitchen implements, perfect practice for energetic toddlers."

"And Aeryn's taken up swordplay."

"At which I'm sure she excels. And it's a very prudent thing for a young woman to do."

There was a moment of tense silence between the two men, and Hawke did her best to eat quietly, half-convinced that this was some kind of test.

"Wait, you say that Aeryn is yet unmarried?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Does this mean you'll be taking her to Goran's banquet?"

The bear-man stared at him in disbelief. "Planning on going yourself?"

"I was as surprised to receive an invitation as you are to hear of it." He frowned. "I take this to mean that you know nothing about my receiving one."

"Other than it smells like a trap," Hawke added.

MacDougall sat back. "Ye thought I might've heard aught about it."

"Have you?"

"Course not. Though coming back might be seen as a sign that ye're campaigning for th' prince's seat."

"I am," Sebastian declared matter-of-factly. "And will make my bid after assessing the situation in the city."

Hawke turned at his straightforward declaration, completely caught off guard. Upon seeing her face, the Bann turned to her with the same calculating gaze. "And what's your part in all this, lady champion?"

The archer spoke before she did, gripping one of her hands. "Hawke is here out of her concern for my well-being, and she has stood by my side throughout the years following my parents' death where I fell victim to indecision and weakness." He turned to her briefly, and she was struck by the intensity with which he met her blank stare. The fact that she normally hit people who spoke for her went magically and momentarily adrift in response. "She has sworn to support whichever decision I make, whether it be to remain a brother in the chantry or to leave all that I know and take my father's throne." He turned back to MacDougall, still holding her hand in his, and not a tremble nor hesitation in his fingers.

"And I have decided that I cannot sit idly by while a simpleton has his strings pulled by whichever puppeteer has jostled for power, placing Starkhaven and her people in a state of chaos. I have been away too long. The responsibility is mine, and thus the solution must be as well."

Staring down at the intersection of their hands was all Hawke could manage at that point. The way he spoke and the conviction in his words was enough to stir her blood into pounding in her ears. Since when, she wondered, did he have that kind of passion for ruling? And as much as she hated to admit it, she was more than a little turned on at the moment. By _Sebastian_, Patron Saint of Unsolicited Lectures, of all people.

The Bann watched him in silence for a time, scratching his beard and giving the prince a long, hard stare.

"Starkhaven needs a strong leader," he said finally.

"I agree."

More silence, and Hawke nearly jumped in her skin when the bear cleared his throat loudly.

"Not saying I'm convinced yet," he said thoughtfully, "but you've got _her_," he pointed to Hawke, "and those that change th' world don't pledge allegiances t' fools." With a grunt, he stood and took his plate to join Eoin and his men. "Eat well," he called. "I intend t' see what ye can do tomorrow!"

* * *

><p>He wasn't kidding.<p>

It took most of the morning to march to the hillside roads, another few hours to track down the last remaining bandit group, all of ten minutes to subdue them, then the rest of the afternoon to wrangle the stragglers. By then, Hawke had had just about enough of the thugs, not that she'd ever been particularly fond of bandits in the first place.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Eoin teased Hawke as she grumbled a complaint about it being faster to just knock the lot of captives out rather than have to listen to them yammer on for however long it took to get back to the keep.

"But," she protested, "It would be so simple. Just stop the cart, let me call up a tremor, and they'll be blissfully unconscious until they wake up behind bars."

The guardsman started. "You're a mage?"

"No," she said, drawing a dagger and running her hands along the blade, the spiderweb-like veins throbbing blue under her fingertips. "Lyrium in the steel. I had one of my men back home craft runes that let me augment it a bit, including tremors and ice and whatever he comes up with. And look!" She held it up. "It's already drawn and awake and if you would just _let me_-"

"No," Sebastian said firmly, his hand on her head mollifying her somewhat. "We do not torture prisoners."

"A good stance for a prince to have," she said. "But you're not prince yet, and now they're _singing sea shanties_ and can I please-"

"_No."_

The walls of the keep rose up quickly after one particularly white-dotted hill, the green and gold banners flapping lazily in the eastern wind.

"That," she said, scanning the hills, "is a _lot_ of sheep."

"Starkhaven is famous for her wool," Sebastian said. "It's best to brace against cold weather, and it's used for a lot of the clothing here."

Hawke's eyes lit up. "Like the skirts!"

This elicited a round of snickers from the men around her, and she looked to her left and right. "Yes, I noticed them. What of it?"

"It's called a _kilt_," Sebastian explained patiently, "and they're not skirts."

"Well, whatever they are, they look comfortable. I want one."

More snickering, but this time, Hawke ignored it.

"I'm afraid, lady," the brown-haired soldier next to her said with a smile, "that they're menswear."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do I _look_ particularly girlish to you?"

He looked to Eoin, worried, and Hawke laughed at the horsemaster's answer.

"Don't say anything, lad. It's a trick."

"I've no qualms about wearing men's clothes," she said, "and I don't see why these are any different. Unless..." A wicked grin spread across her face. "Would I be expected to not wear anything beneath?"

"Oh, Maker," Sebastian sighed, burying his face in his hands as the men exploded into laughter. "_Hawke._"

"I want one even more now," she proclaimed. "A garment that you needn't wear smalls under?"

"What's all this commotion," came a booming voice, and the Bann came around to the section that seemed to be the source of the uproar.

Hawke stared up at him with the most deadpan face she could muster. "Ser," she said flatly, "I want a kilt, but I'm being met with some opposition."

"Wouldn't be able t' find one that fits ye," he said, crossing his massive arms. "'Cept maybe one of my son's old ones."

"They still laying around?"

She looked at him with what she hoped were wide, hopeful eyes.

"Don't know," he said.

"Could you be convinced to check?" She smiled innocently. "Or I could drink you for it - unless there's no ale in Starkhaven."

He laughed a genuine, hearty laugh, and it rumbled like a thunderclap.

"Tell ye what," he said. "Manage two glasses of whatever I put in front of ye, and you'll have your bloody pick."

"Deal," she said, shaking his hand.

A few drops of water hit her skin, and she looked up. "Rain?"

The Bann turned and called to the group. "Pick it up, men! Inside, now!"

As they ran to escape the downpour, Eoin turned to Sebastian with a smirk.

"Your lady is suited to Starkhaven," he observed. "She may never want to leave."

"Well," Sebastian said under his breath, "that needn't be a bad thing."

* * *

><p>The rain came down in sheets outside the windows of the keep's great hall, where the residents had gathered for the night's entertainment. Hawke had checked on Gryphon before entering, the maids putting out fresh, dry clothes for her. As she unlaced her sopping wet armor and laid it on the stand, she smiled at the folded, <em>gloriously<em> plaid prize waiting for her.

She walked into the hall, still toweling off her hair. The drawstring blouse hung loosely off of her shoulders and strung doeskin slippers covered her feet, but neither piece of finery appealed to her nearly as much as the fabric around her waist. She hung her towel on the drying rack by the central fireplace, letting her hair fall in telltale waves around her face and warming her hands by the flames.

"Hard won, Hawke?"

Sebastian's voice rang in her ears, and she turned to see him with an amused smile on his face.

"_Yes,"_ she replied enthusiastically, twirling a little. "Do I have it on right?"

"Nearly. You've missed a button." He took a knee in front of her, fastening one of the carved toggles midway down the kilt. "These keep it shut when you haven't got a pin, you see."

"Good to know." She wrapped her hands in the wool. "Does it suit me?"

He chuckled, pulling the front flat. "In attitude, if nothing else." Satisfied, he stood and admired the green, gold, and white thatching. "It is a handsome tartan."

Hawke agreed, stretching. When Sebastian cleared his throat, though, she paused. "What?"

Gingerly, he reached for the neckline of her blouse and pulled it up so that it covered her shoulders, tightening the drawstring. "Modesty in all things," he said, the hint of a scolding in his voice.

"Thank you," she said with a patronizing smile, "now go socialize among the men for a while. The Bann sits alone, and I plan to take the chance to talk to him now."

"Talk to him? What about?"

"Your campaign. His support would be invaluable." She looked over to the chair by the bookshelf that the Bann reclined in. "And if I can just convince him, tell him what kind of man I know you are, there's no way in Thedas he could say no."

He hesitated, and she saw his expression flicker into something emotional, almost as if there was something he wanted to say. However, his normal smile soon took its place, and he gave a curt bow as he excused himself. "My lady."

"_Go._"

She watched him beeline for the company's archers, rolling her eyes. He seamlessly slipped into their conversation, and she saw the enthusiasm spread like a cold.

For her part, she made her way to the armchair next to MacDougall's, making a show of fanning out her kilt as she sat, grinning smugly.

He turned from watching the rest of the room and instead looked over at her with a spark in his eyes. "It fits, then. And ye yet walk!"

She frowned, biting the tip of her tongue. "I may walk," she said, "but I don't _taste._ I think whatever you had me drink burned everything else away. And it tasted like brimstone, to boot!"

"That's how y'know it's aged enough," he said, patting her head like a dog. A dog he'd just fed hard liquor.

"Poison aside," she said, shaking her head, "I can still talk. Which is what I came here to do."

"Thought as much," he said, shifting to be more comfortable. "And I'll hear ye, though I make no promises."

"That's all I ask."

She adjusted her posture, only to realize that she didn't know where to start.

Her eyes sought the subject of her as-of-yet-unwritten speech out in the cavernous hall, and fell on him talking to Eoin and the other commanders with hand gestures that she could only guess described Kirkwall. That, and the horrified looks on their faces at some of the things he was saying.

Yes, definitely Kirkwall.

"I didn't know Sebastian before the Chantry changed him," she began, "though he admits freely to the kind of lifestyle he had before."

The Bann leaned back. "How'd the two of you come t'your fellowship?"

"He swore himself to my service after I helped him avenge the murder of his family," she said, putting it as plainly as possible. "I'd lost family recently as well, so I was sympathetic. That was, what? Four, five years ago now. He'd been sworn to the Chantry for several years by then." She smiled, remembering the first few months of their acquaintance. "He killed only when necessary, spoke up vehemently about anything that violated his moral compass, and always had a fast answer involving Andraste or the Maker. He was a damn _boulder_ in my shoe. Insufferable."

He crinkled his brow. "Pardon, but I'm finding it a bit difficult t'picture."

"His vow of chastity was another button to press," she added, enjoying the incredulous look on her audience's face. "We teased him endlessly, but he suffered through it admirably."

"That's where I'll stop ye," the Bann interrupted, raising a hand. "Th' Sebastian I knew -"

"But he's _not_ that boy any longer," she said. "Would you like a demonstration?"

She stood, indicating for him to watch. With a smile, she made her way over to Sebastian's circle of conversation and edged her way in, excusing him and pulling him slightly aside.

"Humor me for a second or two," she said, beckoning him closer. He leaned down obligingly, and a wolfish grin tugged at her lips as she whispered into his ear. It took only moments for color to flood his face, and he pulled back to frown at her, clearly flustered.

"What," he managed, wringing his hands. "What in _Andraste's name_ gave you the idea that I needed that information?"

"To prove a point."

He sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Hawke," he said, "you are hopelessly filthy."

"I know."

She returned nonchalantly to the Bann's side, and they watched together as Sebastian tried in vain to regain his composure.

"I'll be damned," MacDougall murmured. "Never seen him make a face like that before. What'd ye tell him?"

"That I'm following tradition and not wearing smalls beneath the kilt. A lie, of course, and I might have used some colorful language."

He snorted, still focused on the archer in white as he excused himself to get some air. Sebastian disappeared behind the door, and the Bann scratched his beard thoughtfully.

"Th' man has pluck, I'll give him that," he said, "and a stronger blood claim. And he's a clear shot above that ninny Goran."

"I've known him for years," Hawke added. "As I got to know him, I understood the kind of man he was. Human, like the rest of us, with his faults, but he seeks to be fair and understanding. He was the one who asked me to spare the bandits. He even showed no bias against the Qunari while they were stranded in Kirkwall, and his tolerance is far above that of your average chantry brother. He's not just the better of two choices," she said, her honest thoughts spilling out like a river in a flood. "He'll be an excellent prince in his own right."

"And," the Bann offered, "he has th' support of a hero of the age."

"I make no such claims," Hawke said grimly. "But I _am_ supporting him, yes."

MacDougall considered her for a moment, making a throaty noise as his mind settled itself.

"It's still hard t' reconcile," he said. "That lad was self-centered, spoiled, and never cared for aught but himself. You may be Champion, but I won't throw my lot in with him until I see with my own eyes a sign from th' Maker himself that th' whelp's changed."

Hawke was about to let loose another missive extolling her friend's virtues when the man himself jogged in the door dripping wet, a canvas parcel wrapped in his arms.

"Bann," Sebastian called, stopping a few feet away, "I hate to interrupt, but are you in need of a barn cat?"

The Bann stared. "Might be. Why?"

Sebastian unwrapped a few layers of the bundle, and a tiny, furry head poked out.

"I found a kitten in the rain," he explained, "and couldn't abandon him. I thought I might find him a home here."

Hawke almost lost it, shoulders vibrating from the effort it took to hold in raucous laughter.

Clearly, the Maker didn't believe in being subtle.

It was far too perfect, like the Divine Hand himself had sent Andraste's own Sacrosanct Ball of Fluff to vilify Sebastian's compassionate disposition. She had a sudden urge to check its underside for the Chantry sigil.

And it was an overwhelmingly ridiculous image, to see the dripping wet princeling and trembling pouf of fur looking at this enormous man hopefully.

Then again, hadn't 'ridiculous' always been the theme of her life?

MacDougall arched a thick eyebrow, apparently sharing her same train of thought. He looked at the kitten, then back at Sebastian - back to the kitten, back to Sebastian - his expression furrowed in deep thought, as though trying to decide what in Thedas he should do with this.

Hawke cleared her throat discreetly, a wide smile across her lips.

The Bann turned to her, his face clearly reading defeat, before sighing and standing. He reached forward, taking the mewing herald of the Creator from the prince.

"I'll bring him t' my steward." He moved to leave, but hesitated. "Find me in my study in th' morning," he said, the corners of his mouth turned upward. "We'll need t' form a strategy for Goran's banquet if we're t' get this coup off th' ground."


	4. The Princess Bride

**A/N:** And things start to get interesting!

A BIG thank-you to my beta readers, 2.71828 and Canaria0, for their hard work and hundreds of sticky notes. Labor of love, people. Labor. Of. Love.

* * *

><p>"Best t' displace him now, before he picks himself a capable wife."<p>

Sebastian nodded his agreement, settling in the chair opposite Bann MacDougall's enormous desk. The study was as he remembered it as a child – cedarwood, a stone hearth, and detailed maps covering nearly every surface.

He also discovered, to some amusement, that the hidden liquor locations and hollow books were still well-stocked.

"Should he choose a wife from among the nobles," the prince said with some consideration, "the power struggles would only worsen. I'm determined to avoid bloodshed if at all possible."

"Good man."

"If I may ask," Sebastian said, leaning forward, "who seem to be the strongest candidates for his choice of bride?"

The Bann reclined in his chair, staring up at the painted ceiling as he thought aloud. "Harimann's daughter was a fighter, but she all but disappeared," he said. "Then there's rumors that Lord and Lady Ferren and Chancellor Gallach both put their girls forward, but..." He narrowed his eyes as his wandering mind bore fruit. "Only two I've seen him look twice at are Bann Loudain's daughter Cora and Lady Sutherland's daughter Marianne."

"I remember Loudain's daughter," the prince said thoughtfully. "Pretty, but unremarkable."

Chuckling, the Bann lifted a cup of steaming hot tea to his lips - or rather, moustache. "You remember everyone's daughters."

Sebastian only half-smiled, suppressing an urge to groan loudly. The Bann would never let him live down his younger days.

"I never set my sights on either of your girls," he said, "and now my memory serves us well. What more would you have?"

"Fair enough!" MacDougall stood, walking to the northward-facing windows and staring down into the outer yard. "Say, whelp," he called, motioning for the other man to join him. "Come look at this."

It was late enough in the morning that the rolling fog from the previous day's rain had dissipated, leaving the lush green surrounding the keep free and clear for the goings-about of everyday life. Washwomen carried baskets of laundry across the central paths, children ran squealing with the dogs, and the maids good-naturedly accosted the guardsmen as they passed.

What the Bann was pointing to, however, was a fenced-in, bare bit of land that was littered with propped-up planks of wood at various heights and large poles sticking out of the ground. There was a small raised platform at one side, and Hawke stood on it, crouched in anticipation. Gryphon ran by, Eoin running alongside him, guiding him to the edge.

They watched as Hawke leapt, managing to just nearly grab hold of the saddle's pommel, but still not enough to pull herself up onto it. She hit the ground rolling, shoving herself upright and dusting off her leathers. The blonde man explained something to her, handing her Gryphon's reins and heading up onto the platform himself. She ran the horse by, and Eoin gracefully caught hold and pulled himself to seated in one seamless, fluid motion.

Hawke threw her hands up in the air, yelling something that made the guardsman laugh, and the Bann leaned against the stone arch around the glass pane.

"Eoin was one of th' horsemasters of Tantervale," he explained, watching Hawke's repeated attempts at the moving mount technique. "Found him on th' borders half-dead a few years back. Took an oath t' me when he was well, and I was glad t' have him. Best rider I've ever seen. Couldn't just keep him in th' stables."

As they continued observing from their vantage point, Hawke wiped the dirt from her gloves for the umpteenth time and pulled down Gryphon's face by the bridle. She looked completely serious as she spoke to the horse, patting him on the neck before handing his reins back to her teacher. Up to the platform she went again, hands and legs at the ready.

This time, she caught herself well as Gryphon ran by, and managed to hoot a foot into one stirrup, pushing herself upward enough to swing the other leg over.

And there it was.

She cheered in triumph, and Sebastian saw a wide smile cross the Bann's face.

"I'll be damned," he said. "Fast learner, your Champion."

"Yes," the archer agreed, stifling a laugh. "And quite resilient, fortunately."

"She's getting along well with my guardsmen," the Bann continued. "Though th' headbutting is a touch off, they've taken t' it well."

Sebastian hid his smirk behind a hand over his mouth, staring out the window. "She spent a good deal of time around the Qunari," he explained. "She couldn't help but pick up a few of their habits here and there."

The other man whistled in appreciation. "Accounts for how she fights like a banshee."

"No," the prince replied firmly, "she has _always_ been that terrifying."

Oblivious to being described as 'terrifying,' Hawke dismounted, ran to Eoin and flung her arms around his neck, laughing. He clapped her on the back proudly, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek before calling for Gryphon, who trotted over obligingly. In her typical fashion, it seemed time to practice ad nauseam now that she'd succeeded the once.

MacDougall made a noise of approval as he kept watch over their interactions. "They get on well," he said pointedly. "And Eoin's a good man. One of th'best. Popular with the women of th'keep, too. He's – what do they call it..." He crinkled his round nose. "Man-pretty."

Sebastian wasn't sure he wanted to know where this was heading. "Bann?"

"She'd be a good match for him," he continued, "and it'd give her a reason to stay in Starkhaven."

His chest suddenly tight, the prince looked back down as Hawke grew faster and more coordinated at her newly-learned skill. He would be lying if he said that the idea of her staying in his home country wasn't tempting, but there was something about the proposition that just felt _wrong_. He couldn't pinpoint it, but he knew that she was still recovering from the loss of an intense, volatile kind of love that had ended poorly enough to leave deep scars. Ones that were not yet even close to healed.

"Unfortunately for Eoin," he said softly, "I am afraid that her heart lies elsewhere."

The Bann stared at him then, a keenly interested look behind his eyes. It was a while before he spoke, and when he did, it was with a strange tone that Sebastian didn't recognize.

"That so?"

"I'm quite sure."

"Hrm." The giant turned away from the window, a smile beaming out from under his fiery beard. "There's t' be a banquet tonight in th' keep to welcome th' two of ye," he announced. "Make sure your lady scrubs off at least _most_ of th' mud."

* * *

><p>Hawke's calves complained as she walked down the stone corridors of the keep, and her legs burned as if on fire.<p>

But it had been worth it, she thought with a heady glow. The feel of the horse's muscles beneath her and the wind on her face as she led him to gallop were things she'd never want to give up.

The training had left her ravenous, though, and she ducked down the hall to the kitchens, hoping to pilfer something from the preparations for lunch. At the doors ahead she saw the Bann speaking with two of the cooks, who were arguing over dishes.

"Make _something_," the Bann ordered gruffly. "And a lot of it. Since Cendre's left, I can't be arsed t' make these kinds of decisions. Now go, th' both of ye." He shooed them back into the kitchen with a sigh, turning to walk away.

"Bann MacDougall," Hawke called, jogging to meet him despite her body's protests. He turned, and his irritated face broke into a broad smile.

"Champion," he greeted. "Just the lass I wanted t' see."

"Just 'Mairead' or 'Hawke' is fine," she said, "what did you need?"

"Th' keep's having a bit of a welcome banquet for you and th' prince," he declared proudly, "and so tonight, we announce his bid t' my men and fellows."

Her face lit up, and her screaming calves momentarily silenced. "Then your talk this morning was a success?"

"Th' boy has a good head on his shoulders," the Bann said warmly, "and a good woman at his side. In my mind, those're th' two most important things a man could have."

She simply grinned up at him in response, and he cleared his throat purposefully.

"So how d'ye enjoy Starkhaven so far?"

"I like all of your men," she said, "the sheep are much friendlier here, and I haven't seen a dragon since I arrived. I can't wait to come back."

The Bann let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "I suppose that's th' prince's influence, then."

"He _is_ the reason I'm here in the first place," she admitted, "but I get the feeling that I'll come to like it here independent of whether or not Sebastian's dragging me around for any particular purpose."

"You intend t' return, then?"

"If Sebastian accepts the crown. Otherwise, we return to Kirkwall."

Nodding, the Bann scratched his jaw. "Th' two of you are a formidable alliance," he said. "I doubt he'll face many objections."

Hawke laughed, briefly toying with the idea of showing up to Goram's name day banquet in full armor and covered in blood. Formidable indeed.

"Clean yourself up well," MacDougall said, gesturing to the rust-brown layer of dirt that coated every inch of her. "And don't worry," he added with a wink, "I'll break th' bad news t' Eoin beforehand, poor lad."

As he walked off, Hawke stood in place, puzzled. It took her a moment to remember why she'd come this way, and after stealing a roll from a conveniently unguarded breadbasket, she started the trek up to her room to soak the grime and ache out of her body.

The Bann's last sentence played over and over again in her mind. What in Thedas was the bear-man talking about? She replayed the conversation in her mind as she stuffed the rest of the thick bread into her mouth, shedding her mud-caked leathers on the floor of the room and indicating to one of the servants that she desperately needed a bath.

_Nonsense_, she thought at the first scenario of assumptions_. _What did the Bann have it in his head to think?

It took a while to arrive at it. When things clicked into place, Hawke regretted finishing the bread in one bite, as she nearly choked on a mouthful. Sputtering, her eyes went wide.

Alliance.

Oh, Maker. He thought she and Sebastian were _engaged._

The time it took for her bath to fill felt like an eternity, and she couldn't get into the steaming hot water fast enough. Her skin stung at the lack of slow adjustment, but she closed her eyes and tried to think calmly.

No wonder the Bann was so focused on her part in all this. He thought she intended to stick around to rule.

The thought of being a princess made Hawke snicker. Sitting prettily through bureaucracy was impossible. _Warrior_ princess, on the other hand, she could do. Fairly well, even.

But this was all moot, she reminded herself as she reached for a washcloth. She would simply go to the Bann after her bath and tell him that she couldn't marry Sebastian, then list all of the perfectly good reasons why.

Except, she realized with a frown, scrubbing one arm, that she could only think of one.

She wasn't in love with him.

Then again, where had love gotten her before? Would it not be better to base commitment on mutual respect and common goals?

The rest of her bath was spent trying to filter all of the thoughts that ran through her head, each bringing life to another in its wake. And by the time she stepped out of the tub to towel herself off, the title of Princess of Starkhaven wasn't nearly as revolting as it had first seemed.

As she pulled on her dressing gown, she sent for Sebastian.

They needed to talk.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, the Bann is under the impression that we are <em>what?"<em>

Sebastian stared at the woman sitting on the bed, toweling off her hair. "I only realized right before my bath," she explained, "and even then, it was the first he'd mentioned anything like that. Did he say something at your strategy meeting this morning?"

Sebastian ransacked his memory, pacing. They had spoken of Goram's marriage prospects, _that_ he remembered clearly. And then Eoin, and then–

_Her heart lies elsewhere._

His eyes widened a bit, and he stopped in place. "No," he said quietly. "But _I _might have."

She raised an eyebrow, smirking at him. "So this is your fault?"

He turned to her, embarrassed and apologetic beyond belief. "It was entirely unintentional, I assure you." He sighed, a hand clapped over his eyes, trying to think of how to explain this to the Bann. It would not go over well.

"I am _so_ sorry, Hawke," he said. "Please forgive me. This is entirely my fault. I will go immediately to MacDougall and clear the misunderstanding."

"Actually," she interrupted, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He looked over to her, and he was surprised to see an odd expression crossing her face.

"Hawke?"

"MacDougall knows that having me as a bride will lend you a lot of power in your attempts," she said plainly. "Being the man to bring the Champion of Kirkwall to Starkhaven will bring you an extraordinary amount of support." There was no boasting in her voice, just a simple statement of fact. "It might intimidate some of those who would stand against you into stepping down peacefully."

"Aye," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes a bit, "it may, but you _know_ how I feel about lying. It is a sin, and one I cannot condone simply to further my own ends."

He wondered how in Andraste's name she could have thought that he would agree to committing such fraud, even if her intentions were for his sake. "I appreciate the thought, but–"

"What if it wasn't a lie?"

His heart leapt to his throat. "What?"

"You heard me." She tilted her head, leaning back on her hands. "Why don't I marry you?"

His knees threatened to buckle, and he was tempted to reach out to one of the bedposts to steady himself. "_Hawke,_" he forced out, voice strained, "this is no place for one of your farces."

"I wouldn't," she said, eyes locked on his. "Not about something like this."

"But you cannot be serious."

Her face stilled, snorting as she looked away. "If you're that against it, then we'll drop the whole -"

"No, you misunderstand." He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her as he tried to make sense of the rush of emotions churning through his body. "I had never... You had never, to me... We haven't..."

This, of all times in his life, would be an excellent moment to form a coherent sentence.

"Why?" he managed.

"I've been thinking since my talk with the Bann," she said, "and it actually seems to make a lot of sense." She gestured with her hands as she spoke, and it was a comfort to see her doing something so much like herself during such a surreal conversation.

"Aside from my name, and the support that comes with it," she began, "I'm noble-born and wealthy in my own right, so my lineage isn't a problem. And taking a bride from among the Starkhaven nobility would have caused tension, something avoided entirely by marrying an outsider." She smirked a little. "Besides, from what I've seen of Starkhaven so far, a woman who can hold her own in a battle is worth her weight in gold and works as an excellent deterrent to would-be invaders. If you think about it," she finished, leaning back, "I'm the correct choice."

"Correct choice," he repeated, his tongue stumbling over the syllables in something between disbelief and awe. Still, something about all of this felt distinctly off – other than the fact that he and Hawke were sitting here, discussing their potential marriage of alliance. He was nearly numb, unable to process any of what he was feeling, save for a gnawing at the back of his thoughts. And when he narrowed down that unnamed emotion, the words came surprisingly easily.

"That may be so," he said. "And I have no doubt that you would bring me nothing but success in my campaign. However..." He took a steadying breath since, as the words escaped his mouth, it was the only time he had to truly consider them. "I would want a _wife_, Hawke. Not a political tool. And I have far too much respect for you to use you as such."

She was silent then, and he took the opportunity to continue. "I cannot take advantage of you. And as it is, you have not yet said what I could give you in return as a husband."

"People would have to curtsey and call me 'Princess,'" Hawke offered, straight-faced.

Sebastian felt himself irritated by her deflection, and there was a small part of him that wondered if the day would ever come when she would lower that wall around him.

"Please be serious," he pleaded. "And think more about your feelings on all of this."

"But -"

"You're proposing a sacrifice," he interrupted. "Not a partnership."

As he hoped his words would sink in, Hawke sat back against the headboard, drawing her knees up and locking her fingers together around them.

"I suppose I was only thinking of your situation," she agreed after a while. "I apologize."

His chest tightened, and he moved close enough to touch her, but hesitated in doing so.

"I am honored that you would think so much of me," he said, true as it was, "but I cannot have you devaluing yourself to do so." He laid a hand over the intersection of her fingers, offering her a small smile. "You are an incredible woman, and one that any man would be proud to call wife. The Champion of Kirkwall should not be so easily won!"

She laughed, and the sound sent warmth through his gut, out to the fingertips wrapped around hers.

"Amell women _are_ notoriously difficult to con into political marriages," she said thoughtfully. "Historically, I should be dragged to the Chantry kicking and screaming."

He chuckled, running his thumb across her knuckles. "There's the Hawke I know."

"If we do agree to do this," she added, "I might have you sling me over one shoulder and carry me away, just for the sake of tradition."

"Our well-wishers would likely be disappointed if you did _not_ put up a fuss," he replied, and the mental image of the chantry steps amid a flurry of colored flower petals and the laughter of their friends stirred something in him long since banished.

There was a moment of quiet, and Hawke sneezed. It was then that Sebastian realized that she was still damp and only in her dressing gown. She shivered to the touch, and guilt for not noticing sent him into a panic. That, and he swallowed hard when it hit him that that was _all_ she had on.

He had forgotten how drafty castles could feel so warm.

"I'm sorry," he said, standing stiffly and encouraging her to do the same, "you must be freezing."

"I'm fine, I just need to put something warmer on." She disappeared behind a changing partition, and the prince felt telltale color creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat over the rustle of fabric, using an awful lot of willpower to avert his eyes.

"I'll, ah, take my leave, then." He turned to exit, but Hawke peered out from around the divider and called to him.

"Sebastian?"

He stopped with his hand on the door latch. "Yes?"

"I'm going to give it some more thought." She paused. "You should do the same."

"Aye."

And he couldn't get out of there fast enough. The numbness was fading, and the dam had burst.

He rounded the stairs down to the first floor, and strode across the courtyard to where he knew the keep's chapel was. The grass underfoot, the mist on his face and the air in his lungs did well for his chaotic mind – he had missed Starkhaven's borderlands in spring. Cold and dismal and wet and _perfect_.

The chapel was blessedly empty, and he fell into one of the central pews, kneeling on the raised cushion attached to the backboard. He attempted to clasp his hands in prayer but ended up clinging to the wood instead, leaning his forehead roughly against the back of the pew in front of him, eyes closed and breath laboriously slow.

The world around was silent save for the sound of his breathing. Just him, his thoughts, and Andraste, the prayer votives at her feet flickering and filling his lungs with the familiar comfort of smoky wax.

He hung there, pressed against the lacquered pine, until his breathing evened and the desperation ebbed from his thoughts. It may have been a minute or an hour, for all he knew, before he slowly stood and tended the candles with silent motions long since engraved into his fingers and hands.

More time yet found him sitting in the frontmost pew, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his forehead against folded hands.

Hawke had just offered to become his wife.

The idea, once too absurd to accept as reality, now sat plainly in the forefront of his mind, clear as day. There was a part of him that was touched, in a way he never had been, that the unbelievable woman had such confidence in him, such devotion that she would do so. Another part of him clamored to go back to her chambers and demand more answers if for no other reason than to end his suffering.

And another part still called for him to know his place. This was the Champion of Kirkwall, who had avenged his family, found love outside her own culture and language, accepted comrades of all races and credos, and saved an entire city from annihilation. He belonged at her feet, not at her side.

He raised his eyes to the statue of Andraste and wondered if perhaps Hawke's involvement was the divine hand at work. There had been a time, on the earlier side of their acquaintance, where he'd harbored an admiration for the Champion. It hadn't been for her reputation or glorious feats, but rather for her humor and flaws and the woman behind the rumors - an infatuation, hot-burning and short-lived. She made him remember the warmth of a woman's skin and the way a lover's voice sounded when his face was half-buried between their throat and the bedsheets, and brought old longings he'd thought conquered to the light of day. He'd spent many nights in prayer, banishing his dreams and hopes and thoughts into the darkness and silence, made easier by his position in the Chantry.

The memory of seeing her in the dressing gown, damp hair clinging to her skin and thin fabric flush against her curves, caused him to shiver. Humbling, how easily those yearnings could resurface.

Hawke, with all her political might, may have been sent as a sign that the Maker wished for him to guide the people of Starkhaven. She could also be a temptation, an offering meant to lure him away from the Chantry in exchange for the arms of a woman for whom he once burned. Or perhaps this was some form of punishment – a marriage to the woman who brought him the throne, but may never love him.

As he fidgeted with his hands, his gaze fell to the prayer wall, scraps of parchment in various sorts of scrawl tacked to the surface. Most were in Starkhaven's native language, but one near the top caught his eye. It was written in the common tongue, and the penmanship was as familiar to him as his own. Curious, he stood and approached it, straining to see what Hawke had written. Any guilt he may have felt at reading something whose author intended to be anonymous was erased as his eyes traced the words.

"_I have no idea what I'm doing,"_ it read. _"Feel free to help out."_

He ran his fingertips over the crinkled surface, noting that it must have been written in haste. Probably, he thought with a smile, because she didn't want to get caught.

Resolute, he walked over to the statue of Andraste. He laid a hand over his heart, bowed deeply, and the clack of his armor filled the small structure as he quietly excused himself.

"My lady."

* * *

><p>The din in the great hall of the Shallervale Keep rivaled that of the Hanged Man on its noisiest nights, and Hawke had to admit that this particular spot of Starkhaven knew how to celebrate.<p>

The enormous smile plastered across her face was completely genuine, and she'd sat at nearly every table, laughing and yelling and punching and being, for the first time in a long time, carefree and merry.

She'd competed in arm-wrestling and drinking contests, done her best to sing along with the drinking songs in Starkhaven's tongue, broken herself into guffaws as she attempted to garble the complex vowels and instead just let herself get swept into the dancing that went along with it. She resisted at first, but Eoin insisted, and his men protested until she set foot on the dance floor. She quickly learned the steps, linking arms and spinning and skipping and whatever else was being done, laughing and carrying on with the guardsmen and residents of the keep, and as the world flooded with color around her, she could have been asked about Kirkwall and answered "Kirkwall who?"

After a particularly rousing song, Hawke disentangled herself from her partner, snickering a bit as she staggered toward the nearest wooden pillar, leaning her head back and smiling up at the beams that criss-crossed the vaulted ceiling.

"Hawke!" a booming voice called over the din, and she turned, still smiling.

"Bann!" she walked over, narrowly avoiding some of the crowd. "I'm sorry I haven't greeted you! I was quickly kidnapped."

He laughed, nodding emphatically. "Of course! Enjoy yourself, it's what th' night is for!" He gestured to the young woman beside him. "This is my youngest, Aeryn, same age as ye. Aeryn, this is th' Champion of Kirkwall." He nudged her. "Say your introductions properly."

Aeryn had the same fiery hair as her father, pulled over her shoulder in a long, thick braid, and a field of freckles across her nose, cheeks, and shoulders, showing through the low sleeves of her gown.

She stepped forward and curtsied stiffly, and Hawke was entertained to see her as ill at ease with courtly formalities as she was.

"Aeryn MacDougall of Shallervale, your ladyship. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Mairead Hawke of the Kirkwall Amells," Hawke said, a smirk curling her lips. "Your father tells me that you can castrate sheep with your teeth."

Surprised, Aeryn looked up at Hawke, then to her father, and back to Hawke with a wide, tentative smile. "Your ladyship?"

"And," Hawke continued, crossing her arms, "I kind of thought you'd have a beard."

Aeryn laughed - a sharp, musical laugh that warmed Hawke's ears.

"Mairead," Hawke repeated, this time offering her hand.

Aeryn clasped her wrist firmly. "Aeryn," she said. "I think we'll get on just fine."

"As do I."

"If I may intrude," a voice called from behind her, and she felt a hand rest on her waist. "I'd like to steal the lady away for a moment."

"Highness," the Bann acknowledged with a nod. "Go on. Take her. We've got all night."

As MacDougall led his daughter away, Hawke turned – and tried not to gape.

Sebastian was dressed like the other men, in shirt and kilt and leather boots. It suited him far too well.

"Look at you," she exclaimed. "I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen you without your armor when you didn't have wounds to treat!"

"And you," he replied, smirking and crossing his arms, "in a _dress_."

True enough, she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse under a light cotton bodice and full skirt, in the same hunter green as Aeryn had worn.

"No blood was shed," she said politely, "if that's what you're asking."

"You fit in perfectly," he said, and she knew he meant the compliment. He offered his hand, and she let herself be led to an unoccupied window, sitting on the low, wide stone sill next to him and enjoying the relief the cool breeze brought.

"I've been thinking," he started, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"A family," she said.

He paused. Clearly, this had not been the answer he was expecting. "What?"

"That's what I would want from you," she explained, hands in her lap. "I've also thought about it, and it's the thing I've wanted most and never let myself admit to anyone." She twisted her fingers into the fabric of her skirts, forcing herself through her own honesty like cheese through an emotional grater. "My father died young and on the run. I've lost my mother and brother to the grave and my sister to the circle, and both of my parents were essentially disowned by _their_ parents. I watched the only home I knew fall in darkspawn and flames, and the one I tried to start anew is in a city on the brink of collapse."

He slid one hand into hers, and she noticed with a start how warm it was.

"I want a family," she said firmly. "More than anything. Stable and happy and I want the power to protect them in more ways than bloodshed." She looked up at him, tightening her grip on his fingers. "As a prince," she said, "you'll be able to make these lands a place where children will never have to worry whether their parents or siblings will come home at night. And you'll be in a position to keep us and ours safe, and build a place that I can return to. I already love it here. I can easily come to see myself with Starkhaven as my home, and when that happens, I'll protect it with everything I have." She smiled, tilting her head so that it rested against the window frame. "You are one of the people in this world I respect most," she said. "If I could do this with anyone, it would be you. And we could both do a lot worse than marrying one of our best friends."

Sebastian, for his part, seemed stunned into silence. She waited for him patiently, occasionally catching glimpses of goings-on in the hall out of the corner of her eye.

When he did finally speak, Hawke couldn't tell if his accent obscured his words or if it was emotion clouding his voice.

"That," he said slowly, carefully, "is something that I would be happy to do all in my power to give you."

He met her eyes, and the intensity with which he looked at her gave her goosebumps. It melted somewhat, though, when she squeezed his hand lightly.

"You surprise me, Hawke," he chuckled. "As always. And yet..." He smiled warmly. "And yet, I am not at all surprised." Suddenly, the smile faded, and concern took its place. "Though..." He hesitated, then leaned in a bit closer. "I will need an heir," he said meaningfully, almost apologetic.

Hawke desperately fought the urge to laugh. He looked so worried.

"I can tell you right now, Sebastian," she replied with a wicked grin, shortening the distance between them even further, "that I will have no qualms whatsoever about the steps of _that _process."

He shot backward at that, hitting his head on the stone behind him, and Hawke couldn't keep from dissolving into a fit of laughter.

"Just warning you," she said as he rubbed the back of his skull, "twins run in my family. We may end up with more than we bargained for."

"I can think of no reason to object," he said, laughing a little at himself. He smiled at her, that warm, open, infectious, honest-to-goodness-light-of-Andraste smile of his, and she couldn't help but ease into him just a tiny bit more.

"I still can't believe we're thinking of doing this," Hawke said under her breath.

"The Bann is the only other person who has any idea," Sebastian reassured her. "We can take a bit more time."

A clamor from the center of the hall caught their attention, and one of the servants pressed goblets of mulled wine into their hands. A short distance away, the Bann had climbed up onto a small dais and was banging an ornamental shield to quiet the room.

"Ah," Sebastian explained. "Toasts."

Hawke nodded and turned her attention toward their host. Any tradition that involved drinking was one that she supported wholeheartedly.

"Attention, all," the bear-man called, holding his tankard aloft. "Shallervale folk, kinsmen and guests!" The crowd fell largely silent, and he took a sip of ale before he began. "Glad as I am t' see each face in this room, we've two who've traveled a long way and we are glad t' welcome into our midst."

He gestured to Sebastian, who stood.

"Th' first: son of our late ruler, Maker keep him, and man of th' faith, keeping in tradition with th' founding of our fair lands. He's come back t' take his rightful place and save us from that cretin Goran–" laughter bubbled up from the crowd, "and he'll have me right there behind him every step of th' way." He raised his tankard, and the room did the same. "To Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven! _Welcome home!_"

"Hear, hear!" echoed the crowd among cheering, and Sebastian gave an acknowledging bow, drinking along with them.

Hawke smiled as she lifted her wine to her lips. The look on her friend's face as he was welcomed home by his countrymen was a memory she would cherish as long as she drew breath.

"And the second," continued the Bann, "ye may know by reputation, but it doesn't hold a candle t'the woman here before ye. Were we both free," he said, grinning, "I'd ask for her hand myself!"

Hawke sighed. "Bann," she called over as she stood, "Impressive as I am, my lady parts couldn't handle birthing bear cubs for sons."

The men burst into raucous laughter, the Bann cartoonishly pretending to shush them angrily.

"To Hawke," he said, raising his ale again, "Lady of the Amell family, Champion of Kirkwall, and Sebastian's future bride!"

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Sebastian paled. "Oh, Maker help us."

"_Welcome home_!"

If possible, the cheering was even _louder_ this time, and Hawke turned to Sebastian with a smirk. "So," she said, "when you said we still had a bit more time..."

"We had far less than I thought."

Cheering quickly filled the hall, calls of approval in both the common and Starkhaven tongues rushing to greet the announcement.

"Go on then, lad," the Bann laughed. "Kiss your woman, for Maker's sake!"

The two looked at each other, unsteady smiles on their faces.

_Decision time,_ Hawke's face read.

Sebastian looked the same, and they laughed a tentatively slid his free arm around her waist, waiting for resistance, as an offer. This was her chance to back away, to call it off like the ridiculousness it was.

But she didn't.

She brought a hand up to rest at his nape and stood on her toes, and when he gently brought his lips to hers, she smiled against him.

The resulting uproar of applause and yelling blew past their ears, largely unnoticed. Feeling the thunderous pounding of his pulse under her fingers, Hawke tugged him closer, tasting the sweetness of the wine and more than a hint of nervousness on his mouth as he turned to accommodate their position and height difference. And though it would have been considered chaste by some, there was more meaning in that simple kiss than the most detailed of conversations.

This was an agreement, the acceptance of a compact that would change the both of their lives dramatically. Though the words weren't spoken aloud, the room full of their fellows and future countrymen bore witness with cheers and joy, toasting more than they knew.

Hawke pulled back first, unable to fight down a snicker. When Sebastian raised an eyebrow in question, she shook her head, still grinning.

"Varric's going to piss himself."


	5. Familiar Faces

**A/N:** I have been asked about pronunciation for some of the names and words, so I'm going to do my best, courtesy of the fam.

Also, there's art for this story now! A sketch of Hawke and Sebastian in non-blood-spattered clothes (miracle of miracles!)

bit DOT ly/x8HZ7j

Again, replace an actual dot, as FFnet hates links.

* * *

><p>Sebastian stirred as bright rays of light fell through the gap between the curtains and crept across his eyelids. As he moved to stretch, inhaling deeply, he felt something feather-light graze his cheek. His eyes slowly opened to a sea of copper-tinted mahogany waves flooding the pillow in front of him.<p>

For a moment, he couldn't explain how Hawke had ended up in his arms, and his heart sped up in alarm. Then, as the memories of the previous night came back to him, his breathing evened and he relaxed back against the pillows.

"_I'm exhausted," Hawke said, the contented smile on her face betraying her feet. "I cannot _wait_ to get to bed and sleep for the next three days."_

_Sebastian agreed, and turned to their host, extending a hand. "Words cannot express the way this night unfolded. Your hospitality and warmth put all others to shame."_

"_Glad t' be of service," the Bann replied, clasping the prince's wrist firmly. "Makes me feel like th' old days with your father. You're a good man now – would warm his heart t' see it."_

_Pulling the Bann down by the shoulder, Hawke stretched up to lay a kiss on his cheek, mindful of the beard. "Thank you, Bann."_

"_Call me Guinn, lady princess." _

_She kissed him again for that – on the nose, this time – and turned down the hall._

"_Lady," he called after her, "where ye headed?"_

_Confused, she pointed a few doors down. "My room? For sleeping?"_

_MacDougall gave the two a knowing smile, laying a hand on both their shoulders. "Now that it's announced, ye've no need t' keep up pretenses around here! We've already moved your things t' his room."_

_The color drained from Sebastian's face, and Hawke was so entertained that she forgot to protest. Luckily, the archer did so for her. At length._

"_...and not _yet_ married, Bann. For an unwed man and woman to share a bed in your home is–"_

"_You're no longer in th' Chantry, lad," he was reassured, "and this is my keep! I decide what is and is not proper. Now go, and take comfort in your woman."_

_The look that crossed Sebastian's handsome features nearly sent Hawke into hysterics. She was determined to end his suffering, though, and so rolled up her sleeves as she closed the distance between them._

"Excuse us," she said with a nod to their towering host, then lowered her head to catch her now-intended at the waist, hoisting him up over one shoulder.

"_Hawke!" he protested, trying to turn to look at her._ "_What–"_

"_Stop fussing, _darling_," she said, slapping him lightly on the backside, "let's just go to sleep."_

_She kicked the door closed behind them, the Bann roaring with laughter outside in the hall._

He was unable to keep himself from smiling a little as she shifted next to him, and he bent the arm under her head, catching a few curls in his fingers. The other arm rested across his stomach, and he stared up at the canopy stretched over the bed, wondering how best not to wake her.

She'd been adamant that they share the bed, despite his repeated arguments to the contrary.

"_...the floor, even. Please."_

_Hawke stood before him in defiance, hands on her hips. "The floor is cold and hard. And the _floor, _for the love of – just sleep in the bed!"_

"_You know not what you ask," he said slowly, meaningfully. _

"_It's not like I sleep naked!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "And this is important to me!"_

_He blinked in surprise, most of his anxiety diverted by that last sentence. He'd never heard her use that particular phrase before, and most certainly not directed at him. "How so?"_

_She sat on the chest at the foot of the bed heavily, her exhaustion seeping through. "You said that you wanted a wife, a person rather than a partner in politics. Right?"_

"_Aye," he replied, leaning against a bedpost to stare down at her curiously, "I do."_

"_I don't know how to be that. But I'm willing to learn, at least what I can. And if there's one thing that I _do_ know, it's that sharing a bed will help. For me, anyways." She fidgeted with her hands. "For what that's worth."_

_Sebastian watched her hands for a time, lost in his own thoughts. She tested his restraint. She must have known, but still – it wasn't out of malice, nor was it for her entertainment. She was asking him for something to help establish this change in their relationship to one another, and she had put genuine thought into it. _

_If stubborn, unpredictable Hawke could make an effort, why couldn't he?_

_He would just stay on his own side of the bed, he told himself. Keep his hands as far away from her as possible, and recite the Chant over and over again in his mind as many times as necessary._

"_I won't attack you," she said. "You have my word. I just want to try this."_

_The prince sighed a little, acknowledging his defeat. He sat on the side of the bed and started to remove his boots, catching her earnest smile out of the corner of his eye._

"_Not because you demanded it," he clarified, eyes on the fastenings, "but because you were wholly honest with me."_

_He heard the rustle of fabric behind him and swallowed hard, fingers fumbling over a buckle. After he felt the mattress sink, he knew she was under the blankets and he donned his nightclothes. As he lifted the heavy blankets to slide into his side of the bed, he saw Hawke tucked in up to her shoulders, smiling at him with eyes gleaming in the firelight. She looked so truly pleased that he knew he had made the right decision, despite the hours he would have to lay awake in nervousness before he could sleep. Though living with her would be dangerous, he thought as he lay on his back, if all she had to do was smile like that._

"_It is a poor precedent to set," he said, chuckling despite himself, "that the prince should be unable to say 'no' to his wife."_

_She laughed and burrowed further into the sheets. _

"_You'll get used to it."_

Looking over at her now, Sebastian knew that he was quite doomed. Her sleeping face, couched in messy hair, looked entirely peaceful and a far cry from the tornado of instability he knew her to be.

Still, he felt privileged to see this rare wonder, the furious leader of their band completely at rest. Her soft breaths grazed the crook of his arm, her head firmly pinning him in place. Not that he would have moved; he simply wanted to take in the sight of her for a few more minutes.

When a stray lock of hair drifted across her face, he watched a frown tug at her mouth and her nose crinkle. Ah, there it was. The irritated look he knew so well. He chuckled quietly as he brushed the offending hair back, and was rewarded with a contented noise and a hand sliding around his chest, pulling her closer.

_Maker_, Sebastian thought at the flood of these simple intimacies, another week of this and he'd never want to sleep alone again.

A noise outside the window caught his attention, and he strained to hear the bells of the chapel tolling the hour. Far too late, as he expected.

"Hawke," he prodded gently, "we ought to wake."

He received an unintelligible grumble as his response, as well as what he guessed might have been an obscene gesture from her hand under the sheets.

"It's noon," he continued, "and I believe we are expected downstairs. For which..." he tugged gently at the limb she had claimed, "...I will need my arm."

She frowned, pushing her face into it possessively. "No," she declared groggily. "This is my bride price. This arm, right now."

He paused his end of the tug-of-war to consider that statement for a moment. "I hadn't even considered your bride price," he said. She opened her mouth, smiling, and he spoke before she could. "_Not_ my arm," he interrupted.

She bit the skin of his arm lightly in retaliation, and his breath caught in his throat. Biting had never been a particular pleasure of his, but there was no denying the effect that her teeth had had on his body.

He was going to be in trouble if she intended to bite him whenever he made her cross.

She pulled the hair away from the back of her neck, turning to inadvertently display what lay beneath. At the junction of her shoulder and neck, a series of raised scars lay in a perfect, evenly-spaced pattern alongside the back. Teethmarks, he realized. The Arishok's.

He felt as though he'd been stabbed in the gut with something very small and _very _cold. He didn't know if it was the initial stirrings of jealousy or a visceral reminder of exactly what his friend had gone through, the fact that there was something physical that tied her to the qunari warlord meant she would never be truly free of him.

She caught him staring before he could look away, and her hand crept to the place his eyes had lain. When she felt the familiar bumps, a worried expression crossed her face.

"Does it bother you?" she asked.

He shook his head, resisting the urge to close the gap and wrap his arms around her. "I am sad for you," he said, "and angry for what you had to withstand."

She rolled onto her stomach, propping her torso up with her elbows and freeing his arm. "I'm no longer angry," she said as he stretched the stiffness out of the borrowed limb, "so you don't have to be for my sake. I mean, it still smarts like a burn, but I constantly remind myself that it couldn't have been easy for him, either." She leaned her chin on one hand, turning to look at him. "You were a major part of my recovery, you know."

"You hardly spoke to me for weeks."

"I hardly spoke to _anyone._ But there was something you said to me once – that someone with the life I lived was someone the divine hand was guiding. And that the reason the divine saw to part us was that he knew, as we did, that trying to forcibly stitch our paths together would be too painful. Saving us from further suffering." She smiled dryly. "It seemed like a hollow platitude at the time, but I almost feel like it applies now, too. To you."

Interested, he sat up and encouraged her to continue. She rarely spoke of matters of her own faith. "How so?"

"Well," she started, "it's as though the Maker knows something we don't. That's the whole point of faith, seems like. So, I suppose..." she turned up to him. "If _you_ believe that the Maker set you on this path, then he wouldn't have done it if there wasn't a reason, right?"

Sebastian's mouth ran dry, and Elthina's words rang in his head. For someone who professed to have no interest in the Chantry or its doings, Hawke echoed the Grand Cleric far too well.

At his silence, Hawke ducked her head with a snort. "I know. I should keep my mouth shut about my deep thoughts and the Chantry."

"No," he said quietly. "Not at all, Hawke." He reached for one hand, bringing it to his face and pressing his lips against the fingers curled around his.

It was a warm atmosphere, and it would have been wonderful for the pair's much-needed bonding if there wasn't a loud, insistent knock at the door.

Groaning, Hawke flung herself upright. "We're awake," she called to whoever it was.

"Good!" came the response, and the door swung open.

In strode a _very_ pregnant redhead, her face still as recognizable to Sebastian now, years later, as it had been when he was a boy.

She was the stuff of nightmares.

"Cendre," he choked out.

"Sebastian!" She grinned wickedly, hands pressed against her lower back. "You insolent prat."

Sebastian didn't need to look over at Hawke to know the expression of amusement on her face. "I understand congratulations are in order," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Though we were not told you would be returning to the Keep."

"Father wants me to have this baby behind the safety of stone walls and a full guard. You know how he is."

He swallowed hard at remembering the legends of the Bann's monstrous overprotective streak. "Aye," he replied, "I believe I do."

"Besides," she said, tossing an embroidered cushion at him, "I wasn't told you were coming back, either! If I'd known, I would've gotten here sooner! Got a lot of lost time to make up for, you pompous sod."

The snicker of his companion brought her fierce hazel gaze to the other side of the bed. "Oh, you've got company. Suppose some things never change."

"Actually," he started, putting the plush projectile aside, "This–"

"Sorry for ruining the romance," she said, ignoring the prince. "But he's had it coming for _years._"

"Oh, no," Hawke said, waving her hands in dismissal, "by all means. I love seeing him suffer."

A light caught in Cendre's eye, and she smiled warmly at Hawke. "_Please_," she pleaded, "tell me you're the one he's marrying."

"In theory." She crawled to the end of the bed, reaching out one hand. "Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and that would be much more impressive if I weren't currently in my nightgown."

The Bann's daughter took it with a laugh, clasping her wrist firmly. "Cendre Bànach, formerly MacDougall, charmed anyway." She cocked her head. "Did the prince here tell you about me?"

"No, just heard about you from your father."

Cendre smiled beatifically, shooting a quick look for Sebastian, who had already disappeared behind the changing partition.

"We were childhood friends," she began, "and though I was a few years his senior, I never took advantage of it to bully him as some might."

"I beg to differ," Sebastian called from behind the divider.

"And what makes you think your memory's any better than mine?" she snapped back before returning to Hawke with that same angelic look. "Where was I? Oh, right. Fast friends, he and I. We explored every inch of this keep together."

"And by that," he interrupted as he stepped out, clad in his bottom layer of clothes and mail, "she means that she chased me about the place with hand-axes and riding crops."

Cendre beamed at him. "It builds character."

"The _Chantry_ builds character," he corrected her. "You, on the other hand, build a lingering fear of hand-axes and riding crops."

As he settled his armor, Hawke slid off the bed and moved to assist, absentmindedly reaching to fasten the sides of his breastplate and mail toggles.

"Thank you," he said, sliding on his gloves and enjoying the feeling of her hands on the latches. Hawke had always made it a point to know the intricacies of her fellows' armor, and only in recent times had begun to aid him with his. It was yet another intimacy that he relished, and there was no small part of him that wanted to regale Hawke with tales from his boyhood of the peerless Starkhaven shield maidens.

Cendre seemed to arrive at the same train of thought, watching from her position on the other side of the room.

"You've found yourself a fine lioness," she said with a note of approval in her voice. "She'll do you well."

"Lioness?" Hawke asked, tightening the straps on his bracers.

"Aye," he explained with a hint of pride in his voice, "the remarkable wives of the best legendary Starkhaven warriors, often formidable themselves." He mounted his quiver on his back. "It's quite the compliment." He looked over at the pregnant woman. "And strange that such a compliment should come from Cendre."

"I'm extremely pleasant!" Cendre protested.

"My lady," he said, unable to keep from smirking, "you are a _hurricane_."

She looked about ready to launch something at him, but calmed down and placed a hand on her enormous stomach, glaring at him. "Thank this wee one," she said, "that you haven't a split lip."

* * *

><p>The paths leading from the keep to the village, though weathered and with new trees lining their edges, were familiar under Sebastian's feet as he walked them.<p>

He had needed time away from the keep. Between spending the night beside someone for the first time in years (and Hawke to boot!) and Cendre's presence, he found his mind in far too many places at once to have a single moment to spare to actually _think._

It had become a common occurrence in the past few days.

A fox darted across the dirt road in front of him, disappearing into the roots of an enormous, gnarled tree, and he smiled at the sound of yipping kits. It was early in the season, but he knew that the flood of offspring would reach its peak soon. He and his brothers had often chosen hunting dog pups from the various litters this time of year, as well as surveyed the sheep populations across the different farmholds.

An interesting coincidence, then, that Cendre should be due now. He toyed with the idea of sharing the thought that she had something in common with the animals of their lands, but quickly remembered her proficiency with weapons of the stabbing type. He had hoped her imminent motherhood would have tempered her, but if anything, she was even more volatile, and less predictably so.

He wondered if all women with weapon training became more violent during their pregnancies, and suddenly he had an image of Hawke sneaking out at night, hunting down muggers and thieves because no one in the castle would let her fight in her delicate condition.

He chuckled, warmth coloring his tanned cheeks at the thought of Hawke bearing children. _His_ children. The idea seemed so far-fetched still, so unreal, yet he could not keep himself from imagining the weight of a child in his arms and the patter of a small heartbeat against his chest as he held his sleeping son or daughter. Yes, he thought to himself, he would give her as many children as she wanted.

That is, if he ever gathered the courage to lay a hand on her.

She had told him outright that she found him physically attractive. But sex and love were two very different, separate things, some both he and Hawke knew all too well, and his life and emotions were far too unsteady to hazard his hand at either at the moment, especially now that he had a real appreciation for their value.

He just needed to remind himself of that whenever he began to falter, which was proving to be far too often of late.

An icy wind sent a chill down his spine, and cobblestones started to pepper the path. Slowly, their packing became more and more organized, and soon he saw the road leading directly through the town proper. He hadn't been there in years, but his legs knew the way.

He passed chestnut tree groves and small fenced-in vegetable patches, recently tilled. Houses had been built in his absence, and the little village, while still not large by any means, had grown. It was a strange kind of nostalgia, and memories long since forgotten were suddenly as vivid as if they'd happened the day before.

There was a bittersweet feeling to his reminiscence, as he could still hear his siblings' and father's voices carrying along the streets and in his mind. His eyes stung.

A voice calling to him snapped him out of his reverie, and he was surprised to see an elderly woodcutter waving him over. He greeted him warmly, happily chatting about what a glorious spring it was going to be this year and how tall he'd grown and was he an archer, that it? Sebastian engaged him with the same enthusiasm, smiling earnestly at the villager's recollections.

As he strolled leisurely about, a dozen or so similar encounters dotted his walk, and countless more whispers hovered around him as he passed by, people peering out of their doors to catch a glimpse of the returned prince.

He'd forgotten how fast news traveled in a small town.

At the town signpost, he paused to consider where he was. As he thought to find a warm fire and and meal, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Of course.

The prince strode purposefully down one split road, barely having to think about direction. He'd known this place since he first came to Shallervale. It was the best place in the village to hear stories, have a drink at night, or even see the occasional dancing girl as troupes traveled.

Sure enough, the thick wooden doors were still the same, and the plaque out front was painted with an ever-fading image of a sheep eating a pair of britches. He walked in, feeling the cold leave him like a dropped coat as soon as the door shut behind him.

The inn was blessedly empty, not uncommon for midday. An enormous fire burned in the hearth, and the wood creaked beneath his boots as he walked over to the tap counter, clearing his throat quietly so as not to surprise the stocky, apron-clad woman busying herself with crates. She spun at the noise, wiping her hands on her skirts. "What'll it b–"

As her eyes fell on his face, they widened in surprise, an enormous smile cracking across her round face. "It can't be!"

He was about to speak, but the wind was nearly knocked out of him as she reached over the counter to pull him into a tight hug. Chuckling, he patted her back. "_'S fhada bho nach fhaca mi sibh*_, Aunt Fern."

"Seoras!" she bellowed into the kitchen. "Get out here!"

The taller, thinner man muttered something gruffly as he put down a burlap sack. "What is it, woman?" Then, as the recognition sparked behind his eyes, he laughed and extended a hand. "Strap horns to my head and call me a goat! Sebastian Vael!"

The prince shook it, the hand in his bonier than he remembered it being. "_Hal__ò_, Master Seoras. It's been far too long."

"Years! Last I heard, you were living in the Chantry in Kirkwall!"

"Aye, I have been," he replied, "but am here as Bann MacDougall's guest for a short time. I thought to visit. And perhaps eat, if there is something– "

He didn't get to finish, as Fern was flapping a washrag at him, ushering him to a table. "We've a stew on," she said. "You sit tight."

He pulled the chair out and sat, knowing enough of the woman to simply follow instruction. Everyone called her "aunt" upon her own insistence, and it was only when he was older that he understood that she and Seoras couldn't have children of their own. She was instead aunt to the entire village, feeding and lecturing them accordingly.

As he looked down at the worn table, he noted with a smile that he recognized a carving on its surface. He moved his hand to see it more clearly – the initials "SV" and "LH" sat encased in the center of an arrow, the handwriting poor and messy. Young.

"You remember Leah, then," Fern said as she placed a steaming hot bowl in front of him. "Couldn't have been more'n fifteen when she carved that. Absolutely besotted with you." She snickered to herself at the memory, pulling a spoon from her apron pocket. "She's married now, with three boys rowdy as they come." As she handed him the cutlery, she raised an eyebrow. "Don't go starting your nonsense again," she warned. "You've caused enough trouble with that face of yours."

His smile broadened as he folded his hands in his lap. "Even should I have wanted to," he said, "I am recently spoken for."

She relaxed, giving him a nod of approval. "That's good then. She's a lady who'll put you in your place, I take it?"

"Very much so." He looked up at her, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. "The Maker's vengeance has been terrible. Now I find myself the one smitten."

"Serves you right!" she laughed, ruffling his hair. "Now be a good lad and eat the lot."

He ate heartily, and the master laughed to see him wash his own dish in the basin.

When Fern refused his coin, Sebastian offered to do something, anything else to help out. Again, she refused, but he saw the back door propped open and the crates sitting outside, waiting to be loaded into the larder. Ignoring her protests, he pulled off his archer's gloves and set to work, lifting the heavy boxes and stacking them neatly against the wall.

"Show-off," she muttered, but let him kiss her on the cheek anyway.

He left from the kitchen door, making sure the latch caught when he closed it behind him. The alleyway was hardly a main route of travel, but he knew from experience that it was a favorite pastime for children to sneak in the back and try to sample the ale without getting caught. He turned in the direction of the main road, pulling his gloves out of his belt.

Then something solid connected with the back of his head, and the world went black.

* * *

><p>Hawke frowned as she looked out the window. The sun had dipped below the trees over an hour ago, making Sebastian's claim that he was just going out for a stroll seem like a major understatement. She'd asked the men if they'd heard anything, but no one had seen him since he left that afternoon.<p>

She didn't like it.

She knew that the events of the last day or two had been more than enough to send any normal man into a meltdown, but she had a feeling that instead of wandering the woods, Sebastian would compulsively shine his armor or make a thousand arrows or scrub the keep's chantry by hand. Not disappear.

"What'd you expect from Sebastian," Cendre said, sitting by the fire as she read and Hawke tended her blades. "Every time he was here, he'd always end up in town, and we'd have to drag him back drunk off his arse and mostly naked." She sighed, clucking her tongue. "You think he'd be grateful, the little twit."

Aeryn looked up from her book, frowning. "There _were_ an awful lot of angry brothers and fathers back in those days. Though enduring the mothers was the worst of it. Oddly enough, the girls themselves didn't seem to mind too terribly much."

"Probably liked the attention," Cendre snickered. "And I hear he was a damn good tumble." She turned to Hawke, who offered an enigmatic smile in return.

"Wouldn't know," she said innocently, "we're waiting until the wedding."

The sisters laughed, and Hawke let them. They wouldn't have believed the truth, anyway. And she may have been correct to begin with – she and her newly-betrothed hadn't exactly talked extensively on the subject.

She rested her chin on one hand as she stared into the fire. Though, she thought, she didn't know how long it would be before her curiosity and impatience got the better of her and she made a serious attempt at bedding the man. She'd only been half joking when she told him she'd take him in a heartbeat; she'd seen the toned body beneath the armor, and the way he spoke to and touched her showed a respect and restraint that she wanted to tear apart at the seams. His quick temper and bursts of conviction belied the fire that lay dormant under his placid veneer, and the more she saw that side of him, the more she respected that same self-control that she wanted to dash to bits.

And he was an archer. Archers had _wonderful_ hands.

She smirked into her palm, realizing how absolutely filthy her mind was. And, she mused, this marriage might not be as difficult as she'd thought. In one respect, at least.

She'd need a cold bath before he came to bed tonight.

That was, if he came to bed. She looked out the window again, watching the moon ascend the skyline. "That's it," she said, wiping her daggers down and sheathing them. "I'm done waiting."

Cendre chuckled as the Champion stood. "Check the tavern – the Trouserless Shepherd. Big, noisy. Can't miss it. Oh," she added as the thought struck her, "bring your horse. Easier to carry an unconscious man on horseback."

Hawke excused herself and jogged to the stables, slightly cheered by seeing Gryphon's face.

"Come on, boy," she said, pulling his tack from the walls. "Time to see what our friend got himself into."

* * *

><p>Sebastian stirred, groaning slightly as the throbbing in the back of his skull blurred his vision. He gave an experimental tug at his hands, finding them bound behind his back with what felt like scratchy twine.<p>

As his head cleared, he thought to look around. Broken crates. Sacks. Stalls and beams in disrepair, a pile of broken tools in one corner. If not for the derelict state it was in, he'd have thought he was in a barn.

And then he saw the ladder leading up to a very familiar-looking loft. Now he _knew_ he was in a barn. He even knew which particular one, because it had been one of his favorite places to bring the village girls when he...

Maker, he thought bitterly, his past really _was_ coming back to haunt him.

"Looks like we're awake," came a voice from his left, "aren't we, Highness?"

Sebastian strained to make out the speaker's features through his haze, which wasn't clearing fast enough for his liking.

"Have we met?"

The man laughed a harsh, condescending laugh and flicked a pebble at his face. "So cruel of you, Highness. We used to be such bosom buddies, you an' me. Had a lot of friends in common, matter of fact. You remember Cecelia Arrol, don't you?"

Cecelia. Images came to mind as the sting on his cheek subsided, but only vague ones; there had been so many women. A mass of thick, golden-blonde hair, bright brown eyes and a habit of chewing her thumb. And always following after her, a boy at her heels, doe-eyed and sullen.

He knew that boy.

"Jacob?" he asked. "Jacob MacPhain?"

His captor laughed again, and Sebastian's eyes finally snapped into focus. That same black hair and sunken features stared down at him now, older and more hateful.

"Pleased to re-make your acquaintance," he said with a grandiose, mocking bow. "Don't suppose you've given a thought to this place or its folk over the years, not with your convenient streak of piety."

"It wasn't _convenient_," Sebastian said calmly, feeling his temper flare at the tone in the man's voice. "I was a troubled young man. The Chantry gave me the chance to–"

"Get nice and far away?" the man finished snidely. "Left a pretty mess in your wake you didn't want to have to clean up."

Shame bit at the prince's conscience despite the crudeness of his attacker's words. He knew that there was truth to them. But by the time that he had come to realize the error of his ways, the time for reparations had been long over. Lives had moved on, and dredging up old wounds would have been crueler than letting the past lie.

"I am truly ashamed of my behavior as a young man," he said, staring at the dirt floor, "and would have offered anything it was in my power to give to make amends."

Jacob gave a derisive snort in reply, and Sebastian continued. "But if you fear that I will resume my old ways, I assure you that there is no danger of it ever happening again. I have had years to reflect on my deeds and selfishness, and have sought to change myself into a different man." He let a hint of light into his voice. "I am even to be married, if you would believe it."

A flash of anger crossed his captor's face, and he closed the distance between them. "Married, eh? Must be nice for you." He kicked him solidly in the gut, grabbing Sebastian by the hair when he doubled over and forcing him to look up. "I wanted to be married once. Know who I dreamed of as my bride?" He leaned in close, glaring venomously, and Sebastian flinched at the strong smell of ale on his breath. "_Cecelia Arrol_. But you _had_ to walk by, with your princely charms and your pretty words and any simple girl would be infatuated." He released his hold, stepping back. "But she was a nobody, and you were a whoring lout with a title. Couldn't have that, could they? So they sent her off before she could fall prey to his precious Highness. And wouldn't tell a soul where." He kicked a line of dirt, showering Sebastian's armor in rough pebbles. "Wouldn't have killed you _just_ for breaking my boyish heart, mind, but it does make this a whole lot sweeter."

Sebastian's stomach churned, and not from the impact. He hadn't known, and back then, he wouldn't have cared. But one thing the Chantry had taught him was that lives were interconnected, and acts taken upon one man inevitably affected others. As would broken hearts.

"I am so," he started quietly, "truly, so sorry. I know that there are no words–"

Another kick interrupted him. "Then shut your damn mouth or I'll cut out your tongue. They probably won't care if you're missing a few bits."

His blood ran cold, but he struggled to maintain his composure. Jacob's words implied that he was to be traded, not killed. "They?"

Jacob sprouted a cocky, malicious smirk. "You thought you could just swagger back in here, flash a few smiles, and no one would notice? There's those that'd pay good coin to ensure that the heir doesn't see the throne." He walked to the far wall, sitting on a stool with a good vantage point of both the window and the captive, picking up a nearby bottle of wine. "Soon as the purse's in my hand, they can do what they want with you. I don't care, so long as I'm rewarded fairly."

Sebastian kept his shoulders back, body upright, and closed his eyes. The world was still spinning, and he needed to focus. He'd been in worse situations. True, he would have likely given in to panic and despair five years ago, but that was before he'd met Hawke.

_Hawke._

She was back at the keep, but Maker only knew if she'd think to look for him in enough time. The Bann knew that he would get pulled into conversation and reminiscing and likely told Hawke not to worry. Which might convince her until morning, but he didn't know when the men that Jacob mentioned were coming. It could be an hour or otherwise well before daybreak.

In which case, there was a very real chance that he would never see her again.

A kind of hopeless heaviness settled over his heart, and he drew a deep breath. He and the Champion had made a bargain, and if he died here, he wouldn't be able to keep his end of it. Hawke would never have the second chance at the family she wanted, and Starkhaven would fall into the corrupt politics of a shadow government led by a puppet prince.

They would never find out if their marriage would have worked. He would never have the privilege of raising a child.

And he wouldn't have given himself the chance to give in to his heart.

If he somehow escaped this, he vowed as he tested his bindings, he would take that risk. And he would not die before asking her to do the same. If they would jump, they would jump together, Maker guide their hearts to find each other.

Silently, he bowed his head and began reciting the Chant of Light in his mind, immediately drifting to the Canticle of Trials.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
>I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.<br>I shall endure._

And Sebastian prayed.

* * *

><p><strong>Translation note: <strong>"_'__S fhada bho nach fhaca mi sibh_" - It's been a while/long time. (I may have spelled this wrong. Blame my aunt.)

**Aunt Sara's Pronunciation Corner! (happy magical funtime yay!)**

Seoras – "sho-rus."

Cendre – "sen-druh" (though she swears she's heard it as 'ken-druh" once.)


	6. Roll Away Your Stone

**A/N: **I just watched "How to Train Your Dragon" for the first time, and I absolutely loved it. But I couldn't help but jump at seeing Stoick and thinking "OMG BANN MACDOUGALL" xD Just make his hair/beard redder, and there's my mental image of that man. Burly. Burly, burly, burly.

Anyway, time for Hawke to draw on her Kirkwall skills.

...and there may or may not be a tiny Batman reference in here.

Updates might be a bit irregular over the next few weeks, as I have family visiting and we're likely headed to Hong Kong and/or Singapore at some point.

* * *

><p>Hawke had thought the name 'The Trouserless Shepherd' was a joke.<p>

But no, she had found it all the same, tethering Gryphon outside and appreciating the din that trickled out of the windows. If Sebastian were here, she thought to herself, she'd have to decide whether she'd join him for a drink or deck him clear across the face.

The door swung open easily at her touch, and she made her way through the packed tables, scanning faces as she went. She didn't get more than a few second looks, and she figured it was due to the town being a frequent stopover for travelers to the main city. Still, the anonymity was a relief, and she managed to make it to the bar without being accosted. Too much.

She waved down the woman fussing about with tankards, who trotted over quickly.

"Well," she said brightly, "here's a new face!" She looked Hawke up and down, giving her a quick nod. "You can call me Aunt Fern so long's you need something. What can I get you?"

Hawke leaned her elbows on the counter, glancing quickly over her shoulder once before speaking. "Actually," she said, "I'm looking for someone. Have you seen Sebastian Vael here at all?"

The proprietress snickered, sighing a little. "Pretty girl asking after Sebastian? Feels like the old days."

At that, Hawke raised an eyebrow, wondering just _how many times _exactly Sebastian had been caught pressed up against a tree with one of the village girls.

"He was here earlier," Fern said thoughtfully as she rinsed a tankard in the soapy basin, "but it was daylight, so it must've been hours ago."

"So he's not here now." _Interesting._ "Any idea where he went?"

"He showed up out of the blue!" exclaimed the older woman. "Don't know where the wind blew that lad to, but he did leave from the back, if it helps."

Hawke thanked her and turned to leave, but a hand on her arm stayed her.

"Don't give him too hard a time when you find him," Fern said with a wink.

Smirking, the Champion shrugged. "He'll live," she replied, which earned her a laugh.

The kitchen door wasn't hard to find. The alleyway it opened into ran alongside the back of several houses, parallel to the cobblestone path out front. It was largely unremarkable, and Hawke wasn't sure what she had been hoping to find. She was turning to leave when the glint of metal shimmering in the dust at the inn's stoop caught her eye. She pressed herself against the wall to pass around the barrels, leaning over to pick up the object and dust it off. When she'd shaken the two items roughly clean, she would've recognized them anywhere.

Sebastian's gloves.

A chilly unease sank into her stomach and her senses prickled as she surveyed her immediate surroundings. Back alley, obvious cover, intermittent drag marks that stopped a few dozen feet away.

She bit back a curse as her feet took off, tucking the gloves into one of her pockets. She had agreed to marry an idiot who apparently hadn't learned a damn thing from _years_ living in Kirkwall.

When she found him, he was in for a lecture. And a harsh introduction to basic self-preservation. Things like 'don't go out alone in a town next to where you've just announced you're launching a coup for the throne.'

_Moron_, she thought. _Naïve fool. Huge, incomprehensible idiot._

But he'd better not have a scratch on him when she got there, or there would be hell to pay.

As she followed the uneven lines in the dirt, she noted the distinct lack of blood. _Good,_ she thought. Eight hours was more than enough to bleed out if he'd been stabbed. It did, however, present the problem of not having a distinct trail set to follow.

Though having a trail didn't ensure that it would end well, Hawke knew, a hard lesson learned.

The adrenaline started hitting her hard by that point, and her chest tightened as she endeavored to keep a clear head. Sebastian was not her mother. Naïve as he may be, he was still armed and well-trained and sturdy. He could withstand a beating if needed.

Her stomach lurched at the thought, but she kept focus. The marks stopped where she stood, meaning that Sebastian would have had to have been carried. Not exactly something commonplace, and it would have gathered unwanted attention. She studied the alley ahead quickly, and no doors nor windows led into any of the adjacent houses. Which meant that his attacker would've had to find a path out of the alley where he wouldn't be visible.

She noticed splinters stuck in the cobblestone where the street began, and a handful of moldy-looking hay was scattered around them. A hay cart would be perfect, she realized, and from the state of the hay and the wood in the wheels, she was looking for something old and worn.

And old and worn equipment meant either a home (which no kidnapper would risk) or an overly-neglected plot. She was looking for a run-down stable, barn, or mill, then – likely abandoned and a perfect place to hide a hostage.

The rickety-looking roof ladder lay sideways in the dirt, and Hawke pulled it up against the side of the inn, scaling it despite several rotten rungs threatening to send her careening downward. She'd used roofs for vantage points and escape routes dozens of times before – height was no issue. It was an advantage.

Once perched on the ridge, she rounded the massive chimney and looked out at the surrounding area. Most of the homes were dark, their inhabitants likely below her feet. The larger barns out in the fields seemed to be in good repair, but as she scanned further, a long stretch of untended high grass caught her attention. Something had crushed a haphazard path through it recently, leading to...

...a dilapidated two-level barn whose shabby shutters cast light on the surrounding ground. Someone had covered the windows in a hurry, she observed. Someone with something to hide and very likely a rotting hay wagon.

She leapt down to the squat roof of the adjacent house, then hit the ground running, feet silent over the stones and flattened weeds. Everything about this screamed 'amateur,' which scared her. She knew firsthand that inexperienced captors were more easily spooked and prone to making mistakes.

And ten times more likely to kill their hostages out of panic.

She tightened the straps on her armor, lighting-fast out of reflex, before scaling the enormous tree that passed the one uncovered window: the loft. Some of the limbs had spread to grow through cracks in the wood of the barn, their branches piercing the walls and providing her with an excellent bridge. She ran silently across, creeping onto the loft and clinging to the inner walls of the angled roof like a shadow. She took a deep, steadying breath as she lay flat back against the edge on the floor planks and pulled out a hand mirror, tilting it so that she could see the floor below without betraying her presence.

Her heart lifted when she saw Sebastian, kneeling with his hands bound behind his back but looking largely unharmed. Opposite him was a thin, black-haired man drinking and scowling, unarmed but surrounded by broken tools, which made for excellent impromptu weapons.

She pressed her palms over her eyes and dragged them down her face, fighting down the flood of relief that threatened to break her composure. The prince was fine for now – that the black-haired man was waiting for someone was clear – but the tricky part would be getting him out safely without startling his captor into violence.

As she ran scenarios in her mind, she looked up to the ceiling and frowned. Scattered across the beams were initials carved into the wood, marking this place as a popular hideaway for particularly amorous young couples.

A sizable chunk of them had 'SV' as half of the pair. She fought down the urge to sigh.

_Really, Sebastian?_

She moved effortlessly back to the tree and slid down, only to climb back up when she heard hoofbeats approaching. Two horses, she guessed, though it was hard to tell at such a slow pace. She edged around the trunk to see two riders in black approaching, the cowls of their hoods drawn. Immaculately groomed horses, jet black from the nose to tail, shimmered prettily as they trotted down the roads.

Trying to be nondescript and instead looking wholly conspicuous? The nobility were the same shade of gauche everywhere.

Hawke waited until they had tied up their horses beneath her before dropping down from overhead, knocking their heads together and silently rendering them blissfully unconscious. She stripped one of his outer raiments, tucking the contents of their purses and pockets away into her own before tying their hands and feet and gagging them for good measure.

The long cloak was around her shoulders, the hood over her head and clasped tightly. She tucked a finger-small blade into her wrist for good measure, and she popped the cork of a vial filled with smoky-smelling powder she'd picked up in Lowtown. A pinch on her tongue, and the taste of ash spread through her mouth and down her throat.

"Should do it," she tested aloud, the dose rendering her voice hoarse and raspy beyond even her own recognition, precisely what she'd aimed for. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the front door and knocked firmly. "Open up."

"Bout time," came a gruff voice from beyond the wall, and the door opened a crack, a face peering out from the gap.

"Heard you have a... parcel for us," she said meaningfully. She jingled her coin pouch beneath the black fabric to emphasize her point, and the man's expression relaxed into a self-content sneer as he stepped aside, closing the door behind her.

"This him?" she asked, staring down at Sebastian, who didn't turn to look up. _Good boy,_ she thought as she circled him to assess his bindings. Twine, not shackles. Much easier. "You're sure?"

"It's him, alright." The abductor crossed his arms. "What're you planning on doing with him?"

"That is none of your concern," she snapped, and he recoiled. "But it won't do to have him conscious for where he's going." Slowly, she walked behind the bound prince and crouched, grabbing him roughly by the fur at his collar.

"Just drop," she whispered, feeling him tense beneath her fingers. She raised her hand, connecting a shallow but dramatic-looking blow to the side of his head, and he obediently crumpled to the floor.

The black-haired man was none the wiser. "And my coin?" he called.

Hawke stood, reaching for her purse, and the clink of metal drew him over. As he passed by Sebastian's limp form, however, he paused to spit on the prince. "Good riddance," he muttered.

The Champion smiled dryly, her patience for this farce entirely exhausted with that last gesture. "Loyal citizen," she said, punching him squarely in the face. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell into the dirt.

"Starkhaven thanks you for your cooperation," she finished, wringing her smarting hand. She had to stop punching people barehanded like that.

She spun, yanking back her cowl. "All clear," she called, reaching over Sebastian to cut him free. He staggered to his feet, leaning against a pole to gather his bearings.

"Hawke," he said, her name off his lips like a prayer. "You... your voice, what... how did you know?"

"Chimney Powder filched from the Carta. And you're both idiots," she grumbled as she bound and gagged his would-be captor. "Didn't take much. You know this man?"

"In boyhood." He rubbed the back of his head gingerly. "Please, let him live. I am yet unharmed."

Hawke busied herself with the knots, deliberately not looking at him. Now that she knew he was safe, she was _furious_ with His Royal Hostage.

"You're not injured, then?" she asked in a clipped, tense tone.

"Aside from the initial blow to my head, I cannot find any other injuries." He hesitated. "Hawke, I -"

"Can you ride?"

"I should think so."

"Good. Come on." She extinguished the candles and small fire, taking long strides to the still-unconscious riders from earlier. Irritation burned behind her eyes like a migraine, and she might have been rougher with them than necessary as she shoved them through a side door to join her most recent casualty. After making sure that Sebastian mounted one of the noble's horses properly, she took to the other, stopping by the Trouserless Shepherd to gather Gryphon and bring him to trot alongside the thoroughbreds.

They rode back to the keep in tense silence, Hawke feeling Sebastian's eyes flicking on and off her the whole while.

He tried to talk once, and only the once. "About the– "

She held up a hand to stop him, voice normalizing along the return route. "We get back to the keep, get your head seen to, and then we can talk."

He spoke cautiously, slowly. "I have your word that we will speak?"

"Yes," she said. "_At length_."

There were guardsmen keeping a lookout at the main gate of the keep, and shouts could be heard as she and Sebastian approached. A dozen more rushed to the front, Eoin among them.

Hawke dismounted, handing him the reins as one of the stablehands tended to Gryphon. "Here," she said to the blonde man. "I brought you presents."

Eoin gaped at what must have been incredibly expensive animals, judging by his expression. "Lady," he said, "do you have any _idea_ what kind of horses these are?"

"Black ones," she said, ending that conversation right there, "and yours, now. Sebastian needs a meal and his head seen to."

"I'll call the physician and the Bann," he assured her. Sure enough, not five minutes later, the lot of them were in the main sitting room, Hawke briefing MacDougall on what had taken place and the prince sipping an enormous mug of broth while being fussed over.

"This," Hawke said as she dumped the collection of pilfered items onto the desk, "is what the men had on them. I didn't touch the saddles, but you might want to check them."

The Bann nodded, eyes narrowed as he did a quick sweep of the objects. "Didn't think this sort of thing would start so quickly," he said. "You've not been here three days."

"It was a personal grudge," Sebastian interjected, wincing at the fingers probing the back of his skull. "The political motivation was opportunistic, at most."

"Nevertheless," she said, ignoring him, "we should look more into it tomorrow. There might be an identifier we can use to bring our buyer to light."

As Sebastian put his soup down, the Bann lifted his chin to the physician. "What say ye?"

"Nothing external except a few splinters," he replied, gesturing to a small metal plate littered with tiny, bloody shards of wood. "And those have been removed. But bed rest for at least a day is still advisable, as he was unconscious for some time."

Hawke stared down at the pouch on the desk, fighting to sound flippant. "So he'll live?"

"Yes, my lady."

She marched toward the door. "Sebastian," she called, "your – our room. _Now_."

The prince took a deep, shuddering breath as he stood, and the look of dread on his face earned him a moment of sympathy from the Bann.

"I'd give ye an earful on how t' keep out of troubles like that in th' future," he said, "but I think you're about t' have it thrown at ye."

* * *

><p>"What in seven hells were you <em>thinking<em>?!"

Sebastian winced. She'd barely waited until the door was closed behind them to begin shouting. He'd known he was in for it, but the ringing in his head made it worse tenfold.

"I understand that you are angry," he said, attempting to continue, but Hawke was not having any of it.

"Angry doesn't even begin to cover it," she hissed. "How did you survive all those years in Kirkwall with that kind of attitude? And now you're a prince, looking to displace a man on the throne that a lot of people with power and money have worked hard to place there. And you just wander around alone and unguarded!" She threw up her arms in exasperation. "You're like a target! A big, shiny white target."

He watched her chew at her bottom lip as she furrowed her brow, shoulders tense as ironbark. "You can't afford to be this naïve," she said, the yelling in her voice replaced with something darker, more urgent. "Now that you've begun this, there are more lives tied into yours, more that will suffer if something happens to you. As a ruler," she continued solemnly, "as a _man,_ you have to be mindful of that."

She was leaning against the stones of the fireplace now, turned away from him as she stared into the flames. Her words had hit him harder than the blow to the head had, and he wondered at how he was still standing. He knew firsthand the extent of her wrath, and if he didn't know any better, this was Hawke restraining herself.

"I desperately want to lecture you until dawn," she said, not bothering to turn, "but as your advisor here, that's the Bann's responsibility. I'm sure he'll discuss personal safety concerns with you tomorrow."

As she spoke in quiet, controlled tones, Sebastian felt all of his anxiety from anticipating her anger leave him and come back redoubled as something else entirely. She was shutting down, he realized, and closing herself off, which was far worse than any argument that could have taken place. His thoughts from when he was held captive rang in his ears, and her back seemed further and further away with each passing moment.

"Hawke," he called, moving closer. "Speak to me."

"I'm angry at you," she said.

"I know."

"You did something incredibly stupid and put yourself at risk."

"Yes."

She turned then, glaring. "It makes me want to scream at you until my throat bleeds!"

"Then do so!" He strode forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and locking eyes with hers. "Let yourself be angry with me," he insisted, "and show me. Lose your temper with me, I will endure it. I have well earned it, haven't I?"

She blinked owlishly at him as though he were crazy. As he watched, her features rearranged from fury to concern, and she frowned. "Sebastian," she said slowly, "your head. Are you... _sure_ your mind's right?"

The prince felt frustration gnaw at his patience. He would force his heart out of his throat, even if she wouldn't. After all, he was more practiced at honesty than the long-hardened Champion.

"When I was bound," he said, loosening his grip on her somewhat, "I thought of you, and what I may miss, and I _ached, _Hawke." She opened her mouth, but he continued. "Though we are the way we are now," he said, "can I not hope for change?"

Looking almost frightened, she schooled her features quickly. "How did this go from being about your stupidity to my emotional shortcomings?"

"You yourself said last night that you would endeavor to make this betrothal work beyond the crown," he told her. "And I do not take my vows before the Maker lightly. Should I bind myself to you in His sight, I will be your husband."

She hesitated, then gave a tense nod.

A smile warmed the corners of his mouth, and he lowered his eye level to hers. "Then roll away your stone," he said softly, "and I will roll away mine."

He released her entirely, and she simply stared at him, unmoving. His pulse pounded as the seconds ticked by, and the wait was maddening. He expected a litany of curses, the lecture she'd threatened him with, or – Maker forbid – for her to take off running like a bolt. If she would just react some way, _any_ way to indicate how she felt, if his words had affected her at all.

The last time he had let his emotion take control of him like this was the day he had sworn to avenge his family. It had led to the longest and most difficult period of doubt he'd ever experienced, and now that he'd found his path again, it seemed the Divine hand was not yet done obscuring it from view.

_Andraste,_ he prayed silently as he searched Hawke's face, _I beg of you. Please, give me a sign that I haven't committed an unfathomable mistake._

And as if on cue, he got his answer.

Hawke closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms tightly around him and burying her face in his chest. She hit him with such force that he stumbled back a bit, but he couldn't find it within himself to mind. He was thankful that he had shed his armor upon his examination by the physician, as it allowed him to bring his arms around her and return the embrace without hindrance. One hand busied itself in her hair, running through the waves in long, comforting strokes.

_Thank you,_ he said silently. This would do.

"I was worried," the Champion finally admitted.

"Not more so than I," he chuckled.

She pulled back, the glare in her eyes infinitely less harsh than before. "You scared me," she said firmly. "Don't make it a habit."

"I don't intend to." He shook his head a bit. "I never hoped to become prince," he said, "and so never thought to learn such things. For so long, everything important to me lay within the Chantry's walls. I was entirely unprepared, and I promise," he moved the hand in her hair to her cheek, "I will heed every lesson. I swear it."

The skin under his hand was warm and soft, and he was hit with the desperate urge to run his thumb over her lips, to part them and claim them with his own, holding her against the wall with his body and testing the newly-stretched limits of just how much she was willing to give.

He shuddered ever so slightly, biting down on the tip of his tongue. Hard. Even if she had said she was willing, he couldn't do this. Not yet. Though they may not have still been binding, he honored his vows to the Chantry, and would continue to do so until his vows to Hawke took their place.

He foresaw a lot of long, frustrated hours spent in fervent prayer until then.

She finally offered him the smallest twitch of a smile, and it gave him the confidence he needed for a small, albeit bold, gesture.

"If I may," he said, bringing his other hand up to match the first on the other side of her face. He tilted her head upward, leaning in for a delicate, very chaste and very brief kiss.

"Thank you, Hawke," he said as he drew back, "for coming after me."

She quickly laughed and studied his face carefully before stepping away, a light flush threatening the base of her throat.

"I, ah," she said, stepping back further, "should go. For a bit. I have other things to finish before I go to bed for the night and..." The look on her face was unreadable as she paused. "I'm glad you're safe."

With that, she turned and quickly ducked out the door, and her loss hit Sebastian with something cold. As he exhaled slowly, he laid his forearms against the stone wall next to the fire, leaning into them. He couldn't get his body to calm down. He had been lost in his childhood memories, kidnapped, forced to relive old wrongdoings, and rescued all in the same day. If that hadn't left him completely vulnerable and bare, that last conversation had.

And then he had coaxed Hawke back from her walls only to have her practically run from his display of affection, as though all progress he thought they had made that morning was for nothing.

Cursing his stupidity and impatience as he mentally searched the Chant for a relevant passage, he almost missed the creak of the door opening again. He turned, only to see the object of his thoughts returned in the doorway. He watched as she silently regarded him for a moment, then walked with deliberate steps over to where he stood.

"Hawke?"

She wrapped her hands in the fur of his collar, and before he had a chance to react, she yanked him down to kiss him properly.

And hard.

Sebastian's mind reeled as the feel of her mouth covering his overwhelmed all other senses. That, and the complete emotional turnaround from the previous moment left him with whiplash. The heady rush was intoxicating, and when he pulled himself together enough to close his bright blue eyes, he desperately prayed that he hadn't forgotten how to do this. It had been some years, after all.

Relax, he told himself. This was Hawke, his closest friend. And this was hardly the first time she'd turned his world upside down. Though this once, he found himself welcoming it readily.

When her lips opened and her tongue darted out to seek his, he felt himself sway, and one hand flew to the wall to brace himself, the other deftly snaking around her waist, pulling her body tight to his in a motion all too familiar in his muscle memory.

Her hands released his collar and her arms wound around his neck, Hawke moaning against his mouth and quickening his pulse. He drew a sharp, ragged breath as he deepened the kiss, feeling every inch of his body stir at her touch. It had been so long since he'd felt this in anything but dreams and memories at night, alone in the darkness.

Acting of their own accord, his fingers hooked themselves into her belt, tugging her hips harder against his and ridding them of any remaining space between their bodies. The way she let herself be pulled to him was encouraging, and he was about to lift her clear off the floor...

...when a voice came at the door.

"Your highness," the maid called as she walked closer, "the doctor sends this tea to relieve any pain you might – oh!" She froze as she looked up from the tray, then blushed beet red to her ears as she quickly turned. "I – Forgive me! The door was open, and so I thought..."

Hawke laughed a little, clearing her throat. "It's all right," she said, "just leave it on the desk."

The maid scrambled to do so, murmuring embarrassed apologies before scurrying away, no doubt to feed the keep's rumor mill.

Sebastian noted as he looked down, heartbeat slowly trying to return to its normal pace, that neither of them had moved when they were interrupted. Her face was delightfully flushed and her lips slightly swollen, and he noted a hint of self-satisfaction in her expression.

Though _that_ might have been from embarrassing the maid, he admitted. Hawke did enjoy flustering people.

"I actually _do_ have things I needed to do tonight," she told him, sliding her hands down to his chest. "The sooner I finish, the sooner I can sleep."

"I will wait for you, then."

She shook her head, poking him solidly in the sternum as she stepped out of the embrace. "Don't. You need your rest, after two blows to the head."

He frowned, his left temple throbbing in remembrance. "You enjoyed that too much, I suspect."

"It's entirely possible." She smiled, _finally,_ and turned to leave. "Drink your tea," she said, "and sleep well. I'll come to bed, I promise."

"Good night," Sebastian called quietly as she walked out, finally collapsing into a chair and staring up at the ceiling.

He wondered at how he was expected to _sleep_ after that.

* * *

><p>Hawke closed the door behind her as she left the room, willing her heart to calm down and unable to keep from feeling more than a little smug at the expression she'd gotten from the prince's face.<p>

How was _that_, she mused, for opening up?

His words had surprised her, though, and she considered them as she walked down the hall. He always had to be so damn honest, and there was no denying that he'd had an effect. The man was, after all, one of the most intense people she'd ever known.

No wonder he got along so well with Fenris.

She had known Sebastian for years, though they had gotten off to a rocky start. Now she admired his faith, even if she didn't always agree with it, counted him among her closest confidantes, and had caught herself imagining delightfully perverse things with the handsome archer more times than she cared to admit. Would it be so bad to let herself get just a _little _more emotionally involved with such a man?

No, she thought, it would not. And she had the sinking feeling that she already was.

She straightened her armor, anticipating the welcome, calming rush of cool air as she rode Gryphon back to the village.

She had unfinished business at the barn.


	7. Tipping the Scales

**A/N:** So, no aunt visit for now. Delayed. =/ But then there was a death in the Japanese family, so updates for this and Arrowhead are going to be irregular for a bit, I think. Funerals here are a huge, multi-month ordeal for the immediate family, and I'm not sure what, as an in-law and a foreigner, I'll be doing.

Thanks for sticking with me!

* * *

><p>Sebastian awoke to the rustling of leather sliding against metal.<p>

He groaned lightly as he sat up, the rhythmic pounding in his head preventing him from appreciating the midmorning birdsong flooding in through the open windows. Daylight pricked at his eyes, and as he opened them, he immediately turned to the place in the bed beside him. Though he was initially disappointed to find it empty, he soon noticed the telltale dent in the pillow and sheets in disarray from having been slept in fitfully.

A part of him suddenly came to understand why this was important to Hawke. Though he neither saw her come to bed nor leave it, it was a comfort to know that she had been there.

A scratching noise coming from the far wall caught his attention, and he rubbed one eye with the heel of his palm.

"Hawke?"

She turned and stilled her hand, which held an ink-laden quill feather. She'd been scribbling something on a piece of parchment atop the wooden writing desk, but abandoned it, replacing the implement in its inkwell. "You're awake," she said. "So early?"

He peeled back the thick blankets, sliding his legs over the side of the bed. "I could ask the same of you," he replied, his accent coloring his words more so than usual with the grogginess.

"Morning training with Gryphon," she explained. "Eoin promised to teach me some new commands and you should stay in bed longer." She was at his side shortly, and he could smell the cleaning oil still strong on her leathers. "How's your head?"

"Spinning," he said, "though better than I admit to expecting."

"Enough to eat? I can have the cook send up breakfast."

He moved to stand, and she firmly pushed him back to sitting.

"I can make my way down the stairs," he told her, raising an eyebrow. "I haven't broken anything."

"Not yet, you haven't. And we're going to make sure it stays that way. You were told to get bed rest."

"Aye," he said, standing and avoiding her attempt to knock him back down, "that I was." He walked over to the shelf, scanning the spines of the bound volumes it contained. "Will you deny me a book?"

"No," she replied, watching him warily with arms crossed, "so long as it's a book in bed. Or a chair. Or some other sedentary activity."

He sat in the desk chair obediently, turning up at her with his best mollifying smile. It delighted him to see her posture sink in surrender, and he made a mental note to thank Varric when they returned to Kirkwall – the dwarf was the one who'd told him that one of his best natural defenses against Hawke was to smile earnestly. It worked surprisingly well.

She glowered, uncrossing her arms. "That face won't work forever, you know."

"Aye," he said with a tilt of his head, a glint behind his eyes. "Though I believe I will have many occasions to smile at you yet."

He saw the gears turning behind her eyes as she struggled to stay cross, but she sighed in defeat, opting to pinch his nose in irritation as she turned to leave. When she reached the doorway, however, she paused and returned the way she came.

"Stay put," she issued firmly.

"I will."

Hawke made for the door again, but turned and this time strode back to the desk, crumpling the paper she'd been writing and tossing it into the wastebin.

"Going now."

"Yes."

A third time, she nearly made it to the exit before hesitation caught her steps. Stiffly, she fetched her bracers and slid them on, muttering something about "just in case." She then switched boots – twice – followed promptly by two or three other awkwardly useless things that seemed to do nothing but keep her occupied in the room.

He crossed one leg over the other, folded his hands in his lap, and observed her silently. There was obviously something bothering her, and he found himself wholly unable to keep the amusement out of his expression or voice.

"Hawke?" he called.

She faced him then, sheets in hand, her sudden impetus to make the bed halted. "Fine," she said after a moment, steeling her gray eyes and running over to the chair. She leaned over him, a hand on either upholstered armrest, and solidly covered his mouth with hers.

Sebastian's back arched away from the chair, and he sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden warmth. He didn't even have time to close his eyes or reach for her before she was gone, just barely out of arm's reach.

"Don't read too much into it," she called over her shoulder as she headed out. "It just helps, is all. Like sharing a bed."

As she disappeared around the corner, the tapping of her boots getting more and more distant, the archer ran a few fingers over his lips. The corners tugged up into a half-smile, and he leaned back into the seat. Such stolen, flighty kisses were the things of fledglings, nervous and inexperienced at matters of love.

Though, he mused, wasn't that precisely what they were?

He had reached over to pull a book from its place on the shelf when the wastebin caught his eye. He knew it was emptied religiously every evening, yet it was near to half-full with scrunched sheets of parchment. Curious, he reached in and unfolded the first his hand came to. The ink was smudged, but the handwriting familiar.

_Sebastian, _it read, _Hope you slept well. If you didn't, go back to sleep! Or ask one of the maids for the numbing tea the doctor recommended. Don't forget to eat something, even if you feel unwell, and -_

It cut off abruptly, and he gingerly put it aside as he reached for another. This one was in a similar state, the penmanship messier. _Sebastian – If you're reading this, WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED AFTER BEING TOLD EXPLICITLY NOT TO? Maker help me, I'm going to tell the maids to check on you to make sure you're listening, because I'll be out until the afternoon. But I'll know if you've gone against the doctor's orders, because these women gossip like a bunch of -_

The third he pulled was her most recent, the one she'd crumpled in front of him. It was the shortest yet, and he could hear her voice in her head as his eyes traced the words.

_Future husband: Stay in bed. Don't do anything stupid. Hawke._

He chuckled, re-reading it a few times before reaching for the bin itself, emptying it of its contents and finding at least two dozen abandoned drafts hastily shoved into the basket.

She must've spent at least an hour on these before he woke, he realized, smoothing them out individually. Some were long, some short, some in nicer tones than others, but all essentially tried to relay the same message.

Sebastian reclined in the upholstery as he read every single one.

And, unbeknownst to him, the scales in his heart started to tip.

* * *

><p>Hawke wiped the sweat and dirt from her face as she rounded the curving path into the main hall of the keep, yanking off her boots and muddy leathers. She was thoroughly filthy, as last time. Eoin, however, was damn near spotless, and she cursed his unnatural ability to avoid dirt. She wondered briefly if there were such a thing as a cleanliness demon, and if so, knew that a contract had to have been made on the blonde man's soul. No one was that pretty after running around the field with horses two days after a rain.<p>

She must've been quite the sight, she thought, judging from the maids' faces as she stood in the stone foyer. It was a busy thoroughfare for them, skittering back and forth from the kitchens and main rooms. They'd laid out towels and a change of clothes for her, and Hawke wasn't shy. She ducked casually behind a changing partition with an armor stand, clearly meant for a guardsman.

It rained a lot in Starkhaven, that much was obvious. But a small part of her wondered if the changing amenities were a reaction to the climate's sudden downpours... or a couple of the troublemaking maids deviously providing themselves with a method of peeping on handsome guardsmen.

Either way, Hawke didn't particularly care. She'd missed lunch by far, and the cook had yelled at her the last time she'd tracked mud into the kitchen. As she dipped one of the hand towels into a water-filled basin and set to the task of giving herself a quick cleansing, the champion caught snippets of the maids' idle chatter.

So-and-so was caught with such-and-such out back in one of the chestnut groves. Ser Eoin sneezed in the most dashing way this morning. Someone's cousin in Antiva was having a baby that wasn't her husband's, the scandal! Did you see the way Ser Eoin looked after forgetting to shave yesterday – so rugged! Cendre's baby. Fashion in Orlais. Eoin, Eoin, Eoin.

She was pulling on a linen shift and tea-colored overdress with a waist just below her breasts when a few maids walked by with laundry baskets, talking about a tragedy that had taken place the night before.

"Did you hear?" a younger woman asked. "In the village, there was a fire in the wee hours this morning."

"In the orchards?" asked her older companion, who grunted with effort as she shifted whatever it was she was carrying, likely laundered sheets.

"An old barn," the maid replied. "Hadn't seen use in years."

Hawke stiffened as she pulled the laces around her bust tighter.

"And the worst part," she continued, "was that the owner was inside as it blazed!"

The washerwoman cursed under her breath. "Anyone we know?"

"Jacob MacPhain. Found him surrounded by bottles – he'd been drinking all night."

Hawke heard a scoff. "Stolen, no doubt," came the older voice. "He was always shifty, that one. Good-for-nothing. Knew him when he was younger, too. Not to speak ill of the dead, but you reap what you sow."

"Mum always warned me about lighting fires when I wasn't planning on watching them," the younger maid agreed. "Leave it to a drunk to build a fire near hay and wood and then keep drinking until he knocked himself out."

"Lucky no one else was hurt, eh?"

"Poor sod, Maker rest him."

Smoothing out her skirts, Hawke stepped back out into the foyer...

...and crashed headlong right into an enormous barrel chest that stood patiently waiting for her.

"Guinn," she called as she rubbed her nose tenderly, "Didn't see you there."

"It's my keep," he said. "Can be anywhere I like."

"I meant–"

"Like here in th' entryway last night, long past when everyone had retired for th' evening."

Hawke snapped to attention then, masterfully schooling her features and sidestepping him, walking away as she busied her hands with tying up her unruly hair. "I doubt you'd see anything interesting at that time of night."

"Morning," he corrected. "And I didn't see aught but darkness. Strange, then, when your mount goes missing without a rider."

She stopped then, considering for a moment. The Bann was no fool. These were his lands, and she had been careless with her tracks.

"Was it just Jacob?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered carefully. "I drugged and released the horsemen."

"Why?"

"To bring a message back to their lord." She turned to him, making deliberate eye contact. "Touch Sebastian, and he _literally_ won't know what hit him."

The giant of a bann stared down at her silently, deep in thought.

"Lady," he said slowly, "ye are frightening."

"You don't get lose everything important to you without getting a little protective."

He raised his hands in defense. "No," he replied, "ye did the necessary thing. Though," he asked, "why wait and come back?"

"Sebastian abhors bloodshed," she said with a shrug, tugging her sleeves into obedience. "The less he knows, the better. His hands need to be clean."

"Agreed," the bann murmured. "He'll hear nothing from me."

She nodded in appreciation, and he regarded her carefully before speaking.

"You will make th' prince a fine lioness, Hawke."

She smiled despite herself. "So I've been told."

The tension broke with the bann's booming laughter. "So ye know about the shield maidens, then?"

"Not at all, just that being called a lioness is a compliment, thanks to Cendre."

"And coming from my daughter," he told her, "it's a compliment indeed."

At that moment, Sebastian appeared in the archway leading from the kitchens. "Hawke!" he greeted, and when she saw his bright smile, that voice in her head confirmed that the previous night's events had been for the best. Ignorance was bliss.

"How was your lesson this morning?" he asked, walking over.

"Wonderfully exhausting," she replied dryly, raising an eyebrow at him. "How was your willful disobedience of the doctor's orders?"

He looked a little sheepish, and MacDougall offered him no support. "I could not sit idle," he explained, "and the stairs proved no difficulty."

"I'll have to bar them next time." Her stomach growled, and she mentally cursed her innards for betraying her when she was trying to be stern. As it was, a knowing smirk wound its way onto the prince's face, and he motioned for her to follow him.

"I told you that I could not sit idle," he said.

Hawke glanced to the Bann, who gave her a meaningful look and a dismissive wave of his hand. She straightened her shoulders then, and walked behind her friend as they made their way to the kitchens.

Something smelled _wonderful._

It was long enough past lunch that the kitchens were functionally deserted, and the champion found herself thankful that the cook who had taken an instant disliking to her wasn't present.

Sebastian pulled out a tall stool at the counter for her, and Hawke humored him because of the head wound. This once. She tucked in her skirts behind her, sitting neatly on the wooden surface. "I thought the head of the kitchen hated me. How'd you convince him to keep something aside?"

"I didn't," he said.

When the meaning of his words sank in, Hawke leaned forward on her elbows. "_You_ cooked for me?"

He tied the apron around his waist, the warm smile on his face and ladle in hand making him look more attractive to her by the second.

"You said you wanted a man who could cook," he reminded her gently, "and after your daring rescue last night, it was the least I could do to remind you that I am not completely inadequate, despite evidence to the contrary."

She snickered, watching him pull a bowl from the cabinets. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "it occurs to me that I'm not actually getting a husband out of this arrangement of ours."

"No?"

"You cook," she said, ticking off each point on her fingers, "blush prettily when hearing some of the filthier things I say, and were recently in need of rescue. And _I _was the one who proposed, if I recall correctly." She pointed to the apron smugly. "I think I'm getting a _bride._"

At that, Sebastian laughed – an honest-to-goodness, deep-in-his-chest laugh – and Hawke couldn't remember the last time she'd heard him do so outright.

"I feel as though some demonstration of my masculinity is in order," he said as he slid the bowl toward her, "if I am to retain anything of my pride as a man."

She sighed theatrically, resting her chin on one hand. "If only you would."

The prince chuckled, low and rumbling. He reached out to brush a smudge of dirt from her face, the skin of his thumb leaving warmth in its wake. "Do not tempt me."

The tone in his voice and heat in his bright blue eyes made something in her body tighten, and Hawke cleared her throat. That had been a surprise.

"Lamb stew?" she asked, fidgeting a bit with her skirts.

"Aye," he said, a tinge of pride edging into his voice. "My grandda taught me how to make it as a boy. The recipe has been in the Vael family for generations." He sat on the stool next to hers as she raised the spoon to her lips.

Hawke fought down a moan as she took the first bite. "This is _incredible_," she said, feeling her body melt into nothingness as the spices on her tongue slid down her throat. "I can't believe you can cook like this! You never should have let me know," she half-joked, "now I'll demand it far too often."

"You have only to ask, Hawke," he told her, watching her eat contentedly. "I am happy to provide for you in whatever small way I can."

She nearly choked on the spoon in her mouth as he spoke. There it was again, that misleading but completely earnest manner of his. It was a wonder that the maids around here were still able to do their jobs without swooning into a dead faint while he was in the keep.

He crinkled his nose a bit, leaning in closer and inhaling deeply. Hawke turned to him in confusion, and he backed away, embarrassed. "I – My apologies, I meant nothing by it. You smell oddly of smoke."

Her blood flashed ice-cold before her instincts kicked in and she flashed a smile. "I camped out in front of the fire for too long last night reading up on Starkhaven. Nearly fell asleep. Though..." She pursed her lips. "Did you know that the Second Blight was ended here?"

"Of course," he replied, and Hawke relaxed as his curiosity was successfully derailed. "Though I wasn't in line for the crown, I was educated alongside my siblings so as not to be an embarrassment."

"All the education in Thedas," she said, pinching his nose as she was wont to do, "wouldn't have saved you from that face of yours."

He plucked her hand away gently, looking somewhat abashed. "I still became an embarrassment."

Upon seeing his face, Hawke backpedaled. "Hey now," she said, ruffling his hair. "You've spent so much time devoted to the Maker and changing the things you hated. I, on the other hand, am an _unrepentant_ embarrassment."

He stared in disbelief. "Hawke, _you_ are the Champion of Kirkwall. How is that something a parent could not be insurmountably proud of?"

She wagged a finger at him. "You forget, Highness, that before I was a champion, I was a daughter. A daughter who drank like a fish, swore like a sailor, and jumped into bed with other women. My poor mother was beside herself every other day – the rows we used to get into! - and when we finally reclaimed the Amell estate and titles, I had no interest in them _whatsoever._ And still drank and swore." She sighed, fondly, remembering her mother's fury. "I fought slavers instead of attending formal dinners. I ignored the countless marriages she tried to arrange with wealthy noblemen and completely disregarded the need for an heir, instead falling madly in love with the antithesis of her idea of civilized society."

Playfully, she shoved him in the shoulder. "You might have been a thorn in your parents' side from the time your voice dropped, but I was a disappointment much earlier. And with far fewer attempts at penance."

He leaned away from her shove with a smirk as an entertaining thought very obviously crossed his mind. "You speak too soon," he said. "I think that Leandra may have had the last laugh after all."

"How so?"

He folded his hands on the counter in front of him. "When the marriage takes place, the Amell family will be tied to the Starkhaven royal line." His lilting brogue rolled over the name of his homeland comfortably, but didn't disguise his amusement in the least. "The political marriage that _you_ devised will elevate the same title you so disliked to the highest degree possible in these lands, and her grandchildren will have royal blood." At Hawke's absolutely dumbfounded expression, his smirk only broadened. "And as fate would have it, at this very moment," he pointed out, "you are wearing a dress for no occasion at all."

"This wasn't by choice!" she exclaimed, gesturing to the linen billowing out from under her bust and flowing to her toes. "This is what the maids put out! It was either this or go without."

"You look lovely."

Hawke slumped against the counter in exasperation, burying her face in her folded arms as she realized that the archer was, in fact, absolutely right. Leandra was up there probably telling the damn Maker about how well her daughter had turned out. She turned her face to look at him, smug self-satisfaction written across his infuriatingly handsome face. "Next time," she said gruffly, "I'll choose to go without." As he opened his mouth to speak, she sent the empty bowl skittering his way petulantly.

"Hey," she issued from her position half-laying on the counter, "wife. Feed me."

He offered no protest as he stood, but she could hear the smile in his voice as he took her bowl and refilled it.

"As you wish, Princess."

Hawke's spoon hit him squarely in the ribs.

* * *

><p>"We leave for th' city tomorrow at daybreak," the Bann announced as he dismissed his steward. "Shouldn't take more'n half a day. My city estate is prepared."<p>

"Do we know who we're up against?" Hawke prodded, looking at the satchels draped over one of the armchairs in MacDougall's study.

"Just about." The Bann handed her a few papers that reeked of sandalwood oil.

"Fancy," she said disdainfully as she sniffed. "Someone has an expensive writing desk."

"Already thought it was a city noble," he said. "One with a lot invested in that simpleton they call a prince."

Hawke's eyes scanned the letters, which turned out to be standard destroy-after-completion instructions. One was accompanied by a hastily-drawn map, and the only signature on any of the documents was a flourishing "L" on their orders.

"A single initial doesn't give us much."

"True," the Bann agreed, "but with that and th' map, we know they rode southward. Only one noble landowner between here and th' Minanter River."

"L," Sebastian ventured, "as in Loudain?"

As the Bann nodded, Hawke looked back and forth between them. "Someone you know?"

"Horace Loudain," Sebastian said soberly, "Bann of Estonborough, one of the smaller territories. He and his wife have been at odds with the Harimanns for years, and now that they're gone..." He turned to her as he explained the most relevant circumstance. "His daughter, Cora, is one of the strong candidates for Goran's bride."

"So he has a lot at stake," Hawke murmured. "At least we know, then."

"We can't be sure," MacDougall said quickly, "so we'll need to keep a keen eye out in th' city and at th' banquet. If we find any stronger evidence, then we can plan more clearly. But until then, we're amiable and downright social and there t' congratulate Goran on not being dead another year."

Hawke snickered. "Between the three of us, I'm sure we'll be the model of inconspicuousness."

"Four," the Bann corrected. "Aeryn's coming along."

"What for?"

"She is yet unmarried," the prince clarified, "and of age, and born of Starkhaven nobility. She is required to attend, at least implied if not in words."

"And even though she's not interested in th' crown," the Bann added. "I've just got t' keep her from going off th' handle at some lord or other." He frowned. "Or me."

"She and I can suffer together," Mairead reassured him. "Like bonding. It'll be girlish and fun."

Guinn did _not_ look reassured.

Not one bit.


	8. The Rain in Spain

**A/N:** Phew. Been a hell of a week, folks – but I AM UPDATING WOO.

Enjoy watching Hawke suffer a little this chapter. =)

* * *

><p>They arrived in the city amid hundreds of brightly-colored banners fluttering in the wind on the city's ramparts. Colorful garlands were strung along the streets, and Hawke was struck first and foremost by how <em>vibrant<em> everything was. Where Kirkwall was dusty and brutal, Starkhaven was polished and inviting. It was surprising what a startling difference the lack of rusted metal spikes made in the atmosphere of a city.

A good part of her awe, she knew, came from first visiting during a celebration, but she still couldn't help but stare at the stone roads and flower garland-clad statues. She would occasionally pull her eyes away from the storefronts as they walked by, glancing at Sebastian to gauge how he was handling his surroundings. They were on foot through the main part of the city, leading their horses by the reins so as not to be a danger to the large crowds flooding the streets, and he gripped the leather straps a little tighter than necessary. As she watched, his expression would shift from worry to nostalgia to joy and back again, though she'd catch him observing her as well.

Of course he'd want to see her first reaction to his home, she thought. It would be hers, too, soon enough.

As that occurred to her, they stepped onto the royal throughway, the main road bisecting the center ring of the city. It was expansive and wide, immaculately paved and spotted with plaques and a few statues of its own. It was even more colorful than the the ones they'd traveled, pennants hanging between tall posts lining the streets, which themselves were covered in bushels of flowers from vendors and bolts of fabric in every jewel tone imaginable.

And there was no dried blood between the cobblestones.

She'd stopped to attempt to read one plaque on a statue of an impressive-looking horseman, and a tap on her shoulder brought her attention back.

"Hawke," Sebastian called, gesturing to his right. "Look. Arrow's Rest."

As she followed his line of sight, Hawke froze. At the end of the throughway, some distance yet, past hundreds upon hundreds of brilliant hanging streamers, sat the royal castle.

Hawke didn't care how she looked. She stood in place and _gaped._

The structure stood bright against the skyline, whitewashed outer walls short in comparison to the high stone ramparts inside another concentric circle of walls. The main keep, solid and stone and equally immaculate, sat perfectly in the center, imposing as any she'd seen.

The lower parts of the castle were simple, but strong. Rows of wooden pillars formed arcades around what promised to be perfectly-manicured courtyards, and the parapets around the highest walls linked large viewing verandas that jutted out from the upper stories. They were lined with delicately-laid short walls, and the largest patio, easily the size of a ballroom, protruded from the keep itself.

No wonder Varric called this place stuffy, Hawke thought. It was far too clean and neat and scary as hell. She could only imagine the kind of nobility that looked at something like _that_ and thought "yeah, seems about right."

"So," the archer prodded, "Have you seen its equal?"

"No," she replied, and she really was being entirely honest. She had never seen a castle that bright and well-built. "Why so many walls?"

"We learned better after th' Second Blight," the Bann explained, pointing them out. "Whole bloody thing was blasted t' rubble then."

"So it's fortified to keep the archdemon out?"

"No, t' keep it _in." _He continued after seeing Hawke's baffled look. "Y'forget, lass, that Starkhaven was built by men of th' Maker. Contain th' evil, save th' citizens. They built high points to attract th' dragon, and th' big main viewing platform there is a battlefield."

"Built from the roof tiles of the tower on which the Archdemon Zazikel was slain, if I remember correctly," Sebastian added thoughtfully.

Understanding spread across the champion's face as she took a second look at the architecture. "And the towers all over the place..."

"Hide ballistas," the prince confirmed. "And circles amplify purifying magic."

She studied it again, this time with a renewed appreciation for the design for more than its aesthetics. Pretty _and_ covered in siege weapons.

They sure knew how to treat a princess here.

"I like it," she said finally, grinning sidelong at Sebastian. "As long as there's a _small_ room in there somewhere that I can claim as my hideaway."

"I can't recall." He chuckled. "I suppose we could always commission builders to erect you a thatched hut in one of your rooms."

"Perfect."

He started to walk away, and Hawke stared after him as one particular phrase sank in.

"Wait," she said, "_one_ of my rooms?"

* * *

><p>The Bann's estate was like the man himself: big and sturdy.<p>

The groomsmen took the horses as they entered, and a flurry of servants took their bags off to what Sebastian only guessed were their quarters. He'd rarely been to the Bann's city manor as a child, and as he was ushered into a bath, he managed to see two sets of belongings being unpacked in the room designated as his. It was something of a relief to know that Hawke would be beside him, even here, but it did little to ease the anxiety about the next day.

He sank into the tub with a sigh, slipping his head under quickly and running a hand through sopping wet hair. Even if they managed to not incite a riot or cause an uproar at the banquet, that was hardly the end of things. And it _still_ required a large amount of work beforehand.

Discussions of key names and faces needed to be had, as well as being brought up to date on the changes in the court that had taken place in his absence. The Bann and Aeryn had spoken at length on it, however, there were still hours yet to go.

Then, of course, there was Hawke.

He wasn't sure how informed she already was, or how informed it was prudent for her to be. Though it might prove to be better to tell her nothing, as poor an idea as that sounded in his head. Hawke was fairly sharp at picking things up on her own, and may glean details that she'd miss otherwise.

"Hey," the object of his thoughts called from beyond the shut door, "you in the bath?"

He nearly jumped in his skin. "I, ah... Yes, Hawke." He cleared his throat, dusting suds off of the water's surface nervously. "Did you need something?"

"I was told to take a bath as well. Though..." Her voice trailed off, and he could hear the smirk in her voice. "They didn't specify if I was to wait until you finished yours or if I was to join you."

Sebastian hiccuped, quickly reaching for a washrag as warmth flooded his face. "I see."

"So?" she prompted, and he heard the door creak as she leaned against it. "Am I coming in or not?"

He stilled, unable to prevent the flood of images that filtered through his vision. Watching her shed her armor, piece by piece, laying it in the corner and slipping one leg into the other end of the copper basin. He'd run lathered hands up her thigh, over her hips, tongue dipping into her navel before tugging her into the freshly drawn hot water and smiling with satisfaction as the bath overran.

He draped the cloth over the side of the basin and leaned his head back, pressing his palms into his eyes in an effort to control the visions. He tried very hard not to think about taking her up on the offer she so freely gave.

Or the resulting erection he was now fighting.

"No," he said slowly, flinching at how strained his voice sounded. "I think it's best we wait until after the wedding to develop those particular... bathing habits."

A sigh came from beyond the wooden door. "So we're waiting, then."

The hint of a smirk peeked through his intense discomfort. "You sound disappointed."

"Not as disappointed as you should be," she replied smartly. "I can do creative things with soap."

Sebastian bit back a groan. The woman _had_ to know that she was torturing him. His hard-on was trying to convince him to ask more about these soap tricks, but he kept his breathing slow, even, and deep.

"I intend to keep chaste until the Maker releases me from my vows as I enter into marriage," he said firmly, though shakily.

"You won't even let me wash your back?" she asked, making no effort to disguise the amusement in her tone. She was enjoying this far too much. After the wedding, the archer swore, there would be hell to pay in retribution. "I'll eventually see you naked anyway."

"_Eventually_," he agreed. "After we're _married_."

"Why not now, get it over with? Like ripping off a wound dressing all at once."

"_Hawke!"_

"Fine, fine. Don't be long; the Bann mentioned something about training at supper tonight. Let me know when you're out and decent."

He would never be decent again if she kept this up. He let out a long breath as her footsteps faded, trying to will his arousal into submission.

Andraste and the Maker had a wicked sense of humor, Sebastian mused as he scrubbed his arms roughly. They would release him from his vows, aye, but he would have to suffer a little first.

* * *

><p>"So," Hawke asked as she sat at the dinner table, a valet pushing the chair in behind her. "What was this training you mentioned?"<p>

Sebastian sat opposite her, the Bann beside them at the head of the table. Aeryn was to her left, and she surveyed the table's trappings.

"_This_ is th' training," the Bann replied, gesturing to the space in front of her. "It'll be of use t' ye tomorrow eve at the banquet."

An impressive collection of flatware was arranged painstakingly in front of her, and she raised an eyebrow. Etiquette? He rushed her bath to lecture her on _dining etiquette?_

A single softboiled egg was served in a shallow oval-shaped dish, on a bed of finely-shredded greens. An identical one was placed in front of each person and she sighed and straightened her posture, rolling her shoulders back to nearly touch the upholstery. Somewhere in the heavens, at the Maker's side, her mother was laughing herself to tears.

Hawke never thought she'd have to do this again.

"Now," the Bann started, "eggs cleanse th' palette. Dandelions and whatnot are there for decoration, ye don't need t' suffer through those."

As he spoke, Hawke waved over the valet, raising her hands off of her lap. Their place was immediately taken by a cloth napkin, fluttered nicely over her thighs and knees. She proceeded to pick up a heavy-set, short spoon and trace a circle in the top portion of the shell of her egg, popping it off smoothly. She then laid the spoon upside-down on the charger beneath the dish, abandoning it in favor of a thin, slightly-curved implement with a flattened scoop on the bottom. As she emptied out the fleshy innards gracefully in tiny bites, she could feel the stares of the table's other occupants.

That spoon, too, was laid aside artfully on the charger, and she removed her hands to her lap, clearing her throat pointedly. The finished appetizer was immediately removed, and she looked to her fellow diners, all of whom were watching her with great interest.

"What?" she asked, prickling defensively just a _tiny_ bit. "Ladies don't touch plates. _Servants_ touch plates."

The Bann laughed. "Said like a true noblewoman!" He leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands in front of him.

"Yes," she said dryly. "I have proven that I can, in fact, eat an egg. Shall we get on with it?"

A wide grin crossed the Bann's face from ear to ear, and he gestured politely to the setting in front of her. _Please demonstrate_, that said.

She sighed, but maintained her mother's well-trained "aloof but vaguely interested" expression and straight spine. As she spoke, she indicated the utensil she named.

"Bone knife. Carving fork. Entree fork." She made her way from one end of the intricate spread of cutlery and dishware, labeling as she went. It seemed to take far too much time, but Hawke was used to scrutiny. "... sugar spoon, lower saucer. Ceramic for hot wines and ciders. Wine goblet. Second goblet, for toasts only." Her hands moved of their own accord as she started to list table manners, trying to recall the mnemonic device she and Bethany had devised as children.

"Dishes are served on the left, removed on the right," she started, "sample before seasoning, and never ask fellow guests to pass anything; there are servants for a reason. Hold goblets from stems only, spoons never touch the cup when stirring, cushion drinks with your fifth finger when placing them on the table in order to prevent noise." The champion turned to the MacDougall, brow furrowed. "Do I have to continue?"

He shook his head, massive beard still failing to hide his smile. "No, no, consider me convinced."

"I'm impressed, Hawke," Sebastian added as his own egg was cleared. "I'd no idea you'd been schooled in etiquette."

She snickered. "When would I have had need to use it in Kirkwall? Can you see me asking for more than one fork at the Hanged man? It's like curtseying to an ogre."

That mental image earned her a quick grin, and he nodded. "Very apt. And entirely true."

"But," Aeryn interjected, "you said you were born in the middle of nowhere, in a mud-soaked village. Where did you find a tutor in that place?"

"Summers in Highever?" Sebastian ventured, and Hawke confirmed it.

"That," she said, "and my mother was from a very highborn family in Kirkwall before she eloped. She made sure that my siblings and I learned courtly graces, whether we wanted to or not." The memories of hours upon hours of walking lessons and endless repetitions every week throughout her childhood made her shudder almost imperceptibly. "But it made her happy."

"Where is she now," the Bann's daughter asked, before Sebastian could discreetly gesture for her to _please not continue_, "shouldn't she be moved to Starkhaven, with you?"

Hawke did her best to steel herself against the bucket of emotional icewater that was thrown at her. She'd never had anyone ask that before; everyone she knew in Kirkwall was already well-informed.

She was incredibly grateful when the prince cleared his throat gently and spoke for her. "Hawke's parents are at the Maker's side," he said, "and no longer with us."

Aeryn's face fell, and it reassured the Champion to see someone highborn who still wore their emotions so plainly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She forced a smile, and turned to the conversation to a brighter memory. "She still had plenty of time to torture us with lessons. Even in Highever, she dragged poor Fergus and Cadhla into it." A smile curved her lips just a bit as she remembered the looks of despair on her friends' faces as they were also forced to come along in the mornings. "If we were going to stay at the keep, she told us, we were going to act like children and not wild dogs."

"This saves a lot of time," the Bann said appreciatively. "Though when ye say 'courtly graces,' what does that include?"

"Introductions," Hawke said, "how to make polite conversation–" she glared when Sebastian caught his lips between his teeth to keep from smirking at that, "dances, that kind of thing."

"Dances!" exclaimed the bear-man. "That's fortunate; Starkhaven banquets are known for dancing until ye can barely stand!"

"If the one you threw is any indication," the Champion laughed, "then I'll need a week to recover!"

The Bann muttered an agreement as he scratched his beard. "Expect ye might need it. Especially since there'll be a lot of clamoring t' dance with th' infamous Champion of Kirkwall."

"Infamous, huh?" She leaned back. "That's all well and good, but there might be one small problem."

"What's that? Thought ye said ye knew the dances."

"Right, Bethany and I used to dance all the time, except..." She bit her lip. "I _led."_

Aeryn snickered, and MacDougall didn't seem at all surprised. "Seems th' lessons are still in order, then."

"Shouldn't be long," Hawke mused, "I just have to flip everything as though in a mirror, right?" She looked from Sebastian to Aeryn and back again.

"How hard can it be?"

* * *

><p>"...and turn and <em>spin<em>, hands and _bow_..."

Hawke bowed at the waist, and Aeryn clucked her tongue.

"Ladies curtsey, Hawke!" she called from the sofa, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Not bow!"

The Champion groaned for the umpteenth time, slipping her hand over Sebastian's as he stepped into the promenade.

"...Step step _point_, step step _point_..."

The Bann's manservant tapped out the rhythm with a spoon and dish his master had pilfered from the table, and the Bann himself called out the steps from the sidelines.

"...Turn t' th' _left_, turn t' the _right_, under his _arm_ and big smile _switch!" _

The prince stepped back as MacDougall stood where the other partner in the line would be, and Hawke did her best to smile graciously without grimacing as she curtsied.

Sebastian covered his mouth to mask his entertainment. She looked like she was going to murder someone.

"In and _hands_," the Bann continued, lifting his arm to turn Hawke under it, "under and _turn, _switch th' _feet_ and try not t' _glare."_

She re-plastered the smile across her face, and a laugh escaped from between the archer's fingers, which he immediately smothered.

"Hawke," he called plaintively, "try to look happy. Otherwise the entire court of guests will think you want them dead."

"I might," she forced between teeth clenched into a tight smile. "I don't have a good history with nobles." Her feet stuttered as she skipped ahead a measure, but caught herself quickly.

"Toes and _toes,_ spin t' th' _right_, hand on _mine_ and dance like a _lady_." As the Bann slipped that last bit in, Hawke pulled her shoulders back.

"I'm getting the steps right, aren't I?"

"Mostly," he conceded, bringing her into promenade.

"_Mostly_ right, then. So what else do you want?"

"Dainty fingertips," Aeryn advised sagely, sipping her tea smugly from a safe distance. "Quiet footsteps, effortless grace."

"Oh," Hawke replied, deadpan. "I have to dance like I'm burglarizing a house. I can do that."

Ignoring his daughter's laughter, the Bann continued his steps. "Turn and _spin,_ hands and _curtsey – _good! – face your _partner_ and–"

"Stab him in the _foot_?" she offered.

Sebastian quickly took the place to the Bann's left, and offered his hand at the switch. Hawke slipped her hand into his smoothly, blowing a kiss at her bearded former partner over her shoulder.

As they followed the chime of the spoon and the called steps, the archer marveled at how easily the motions came back to him. He hadn't danced in years, but he had danced quite often as a young man. Knowing the steps well, spirited music and brushing hands _just so_ was an amazing pull on women of every age. He couldn't count the number of times the steps had led from the dance floor to a nearby bedroom or secluded alcove.

Though judging from the last hour, Hawke would never be counted among them.

"You laugh," she muttered under her breath, "and Maker help me, I will step on your foot on purpose."

"I would _never_," he insisted as she took a few steps in a tiny clockwise circle opposite him, "and you're doing very well."

"You're lucky I like you." A moment later, and her hand was in his again.

As they finished the last few measures and it came time to switch partners, Hawke made a point of reaching into thin air. "Is someone supposed to be here," she called pointedly, "or did I kill all of them?"

"Done with that one," the Bann declared simply. "Ye've got the steps well enough. Besides," he added, "Get th' feeling that if I make ye dance one more round, ye'll lop off my beard and stitch it t' my arse."

"Time to move on," she agreed.

The mental image of the giant lord of Shallervale with a fiery orange arse-beard was enough to elicit a chuckle from Sebastian, and as Hawke smirked up at him, he knew she'd been picturing the same.

"You and the Bann both have a way with words," he told her.

No sooner had the words passed his lips than the champion's foot caught in her skirts, and she stumbled a bit hopping to extract one slipper from the folds of fabric while letting loose a colorful-sounding chain of curses in Qunari.

"This skirt–!"

"Get used to it," the Bann called, turning to give the valet-turned-metronome instruction. "That's th' one ye'll be wearing and dancing in tomorrow."

She gestured to the petticoat he'd had her put on over her trousers for practice. "I don't think this one likes me. Got any others?"

A frown knotted his brow as the prince realized something. "Speaking of which," he asked the Bann, "we haven't bought Hawke a gown for the occasion."

"I can polish my armor nicely and wear _that,"_ she suggested hopefully.

Sebastian ignored her. "Do we need to take a trip to the market?"

"Gown's upstairs," MacDougall replied. "Pressed and waiting."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "You just happen to have formal dresses lying around?"

He was quiet for a moment, then scratched his beard as he stared off into nothingness fondly.

"Was my wife's," he said finally.

Hawke paled. "'Was.' Is she...?"

The Bann grinned. "No, she yet lives, but she's had four kits since. Just too big round th' middle for those nowadays." Hawke let out a half-sigh, half-groan as he continued. "Too big round th' arse, too. Bosoms'd pop out like they were escaping a Tevinter prison."

Grinning, Sebastian shook his head. "Beatrice is going to thrash you_ soundly_ when she hears that."

"Then I'm glad no one plans t' tell her," snorted the Bann, "else we'd _all_ suffer. She's off visiting her cousin in Val Royeaux," his thick accent mangled the name of the Orlesian city, "which _always_ makes her come back unseasonably irritable."

"Orlais does that to you," Hawke snickered, and the Bann agreed.

"Speaking of which," he said, nudging his servant, "We've still got more dances ye need t' be competent in. Orlesian's next on th' list."

When the chiming started again, syncopated this time, Sebastian watched as Hawke glared at the Bann like a petulant child.

"I thought you liked dancing," he said, inclining his head a bit.

"Not when I'm forced to do it backwards," she sulked.

"If you can use your feet to pick a man's pocket while hanging from a beam above him," Sebastian encouraged as he reached for her, "you can follow a dance."

Her face brightened at the memory, and he was rewarded with a reluctant hand on his upper arm as he slid it across her back to rest his hand below her shoulderblade. The other hand lifted into the air, and she brought her palm against his, fingers curling lightly around.

"I usually start with my left," she said, "so now I start with the right?"

"Exactly," he replied, and as the tinging rhythm reached its proper place, he began to move.

The first few steps were stiff as he could practically read the "left, right – _damn_" on his partner's face. Though entertaining, he knew her frustration had already been tested and would likely run dry quickly if she spent so much energy on reversing everything she knew.

He dipped his head, leaning in close to her ear. "I'd like you to try something," he said. "How is it that when you engage someone in a skirmish, you are able to predict where they go?"

She pulled back and blinked up at him in confusion. "What does that have to do with–"

"Just trust me."

She frowned as she fought to put it into words. "His intention. When he starts to step, because he knows where he's going, his whole body shows signs. Shoulders, chest, legs..."

"Can those same principles not apply here?"

It took a moment, but understanding dawned on her face and she laughed in disbelief. "I..." she started, but trailed off and shook her head, still smiling. "All right. Worth a shot."

He stepped in time again, and he felt her hands tighten their grip, feeling his muscles moving under her fingers in order to anticipate his movements. Sure enough, her steps mirrored his perfectly in depth and direction, and she relaxed against him as she became more and more confident.

Too confident.

"Hawke?" he called as she turned under his arm.

"Yes?"

The corners of his mouth curved upward. "You're backleading."

"Shut up!" She brought the hand on his arm up to his face to pinch his nose. "There's only one way to go under an arm!"

"Your way?"

"Are you trying to start a fight?"

"No," he chuckled. "I am merely trying to _dance_, but it seems that I cannot do so without irritating you in some way."

She laughed, replacing her hand on his arm. "You couldn't bother me so much if you weren't already under my skin."

His chest tightened at those words, and he wondered if Hawke understood what it meant to say something like that so freely.

"Nevertheless," he said, clearing his throat, "as my intended, you will be expected to tolerate me for at least one song at the banquet."

She smirked, mouth open and ready to retort, but instead snapped it shut thoughtfully. "Are we announcing the alliance, then?"

"That's a good question." One he hadn't thought of. They stopped dancing and turned to the Bann. "MacDougall," he asked, "your thoughts?"

"Best not t' make a scene," the Bann replied. "Big formal announcements are trying too hard." He considered it for a moment before speaking. "Mention it if someone asks, but don't offer it up on your own. Don't offer _any_ information on your own, come t' think of it." He winked at them both. "Guarantee it'll spread like wildfire that way."

"And it won't draw too much attention," Hawke concurred. "It'll make people come talk to us to confirm it if they hear from a second or third source. Popularity by manipulation."

"Exactly."

"Politics is all about using a middleman," she murmured appreciatively, smirking. "In that case, maybe we should install Varric in the court."


	9. Kissing Ass and Taking Names

**A/N:** Time to enjoy the fancy party. Super. Fancy.

I posted an extra little oneshot this week! Just silly little bonus stuff, not connected to anything, but something I'd been sitting on for a while.

Anyway, enjoy this week's chapter! And keep an eye out for a certain elf's introduction. :)

* * *

><p>The evening of the banquet was cool and clear, bright stars easily visible from the bustling city.<p>

Hawke leaned over the balcony edge on the castle's main veranda, overlooking the beautiful lantern-lit main courtyard. Richly dressed ambassadors and courtiers walked about, admiring the decorations and making small talk, and their chatter floated up with the faint echoes of music trailing out of the doors behind her.

She tugged at her sleeves as a passing breeze caught one ribbon up in its path. The cream-colored leine had billowing sleeves, held with ribbons down the top of the arm that, when pulled and tied, created an attractive ruche and gave her more ease of her arms. She'd expressed delight upon discovering their function when dressing hours before, demonstrating to the dressing-maids how much easier it was to swing her arms around with the sleeves bound. The eldest maid had simply clucked her tongue and asked if the Lady Champion planned on doing a lot of fistfighting at Prince Goran's nameday banquet.

Maybe, Hawke had replied. She'd done stranger things and embarrassed more people.

The deep, vivid rust-red of her bodice and skirts were smooth and soft to the touch, and the yards and yards of a red-brown-gold tartan had been expertly tucked about her skirts and draped over one shoulder, then secured to the bodice strap beneath it.

Hawke craned her neck to admire the pin they'd used. It was a gold relief of a lioness rampant, claws and teeth delicately cast as sharp as they looked. From the top erupted a small bouquet of feathers in various browns, reds, and whites – pheasant, falcon, sparrow, amid others – that delicately curved with the fabric over the shoulder they adorned.

The gold Amell family crest pendant sat at her clavicle, and a pair of the Bann's wife's earrings hung in honey-colored teardrops from her earlobes. The dressing-maids had insisted on them as they pulled (wrangled, really) her hair into a neat tuck at the nape of her neck, fussing at stray curls as yet others fussed at Aeryn on the other side of the dressing screen.

The two women had bantered back and forth as they were shoved into their respective finery, calling one another every filthy name in the book and letting loose words that were so unfit for civilized society that they made some of the maids blush.

That, of course, only encouraged them. If they were going to suffer, they weren't going to suffer alone.

"This bodice is so tight," Aeryn complained through the screen, "that I could lick the tops of my tits, if I were so inclined."

"Lovely," Hawke replied coolly as she examined herself in the mirror. "My cock is so hard at the image. Please continue."

As the maids' cheeks colored, the Bann's daughter laughed. "Good sir, you flatter me with the attention of your magnificent manhood! My narrow, shapeless arse is all a-quiver."

"Mm," Hawke purred, tilting her head to put in the earrings, "means I'll just have to round it out with a good, solid spanking before I check to see whether _all _the hair on your body is that fiery red."

There were a few stealthy snickers among the maids as they laced and pulled, but they were expertly stifled.

"I would check for you, though I already know the answer," came the reply, throaty and theatrical as she poked her head around the screen. "Fiery it must be, for my eager woman's patch has set my knickers ablaze with desire for your enormous girth!"

"Ah, wanton harlot!" Hawke cried, pushing back from the mirror and turning to grin at Aeryn. "My loins ache to spill themselves onto your waiting face!"

At that moment, someone chose to delicately clear their throat at the door to alert the women to his presence. The room fell silent as Eoin walked in, holding a small basket overflowing with ribbons, feathers, and other trimmings.

"Ladies," he called, then paused and raised a blond eyebrow. "I think."

"Ser," one dressing-maid said as she took the basket, "_please_ make them stop."

He raised his hands defensively. "I was merely sent here to deliver a package."

At the look on Hawke and Aeryn's faces, he immediately regretted his choice of words. "Maker," he cursed. "I _meant–_"

It was too late. He shook his head and left, unable to fight down a sigh as the women behind him dissolved into a fit of earnest, uncontrollable maker-sworn guffaws.

Hawke felt a grin spread across her face at the memory, one elbow resting on the stone of the railing as the crisp night air settled on her skin. She knew that there would be a lot of potential husbands here for her newfound friend, and she harbored no small hope that Aeryn would choose someone in the city, close to the castle. Where the Champion would live when she became princess.

She wasn't sure if it was that last thought or a passing chill that sent a shiver down her of Sebastian, she reminded herself. He would be perfect for Starkhaven. An excellent prince, and an excellent man of the faith.

And she had an inkling that someday, he'd also be an excellent father. The idea of red-haired, gray-eyed toddlers tackling him in the courtyard below, safely surrounded by high walls and full guard force made the price seem much more tolerable.

Not 'price,' she chided herself mentally. 'Adventure.' That's what she was going with. Positive words, like 'future' and 'purpose' and 'stabbing.'

Unsurprisingly, 'Kirkwall' failed to register on her list of inspiring phrases. She looked back down at the colorful guests, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces.

"Hawke?"

She turned, lifting her head. "Our turn yet?"

"Nearly." Sebastian adjusted one of the dozen accessories across his traditional Starkhaven men's finery. She'd noted aloud earlier that he had on more accoutrements than she did, from the _sporran_, which in itself was decorated with silver and toggles and feathers, to the flashes of decoration matching the ones at the tops of his boots. He'd pinned his kilt as well, and flashes of that same arrow engraving appeared on the cap-sleeved jerkin that he'd buttoned to his neck, rough silk sleeves cuffing at the wrist with arrows of their own.

The colors he wore matched hers, in tartan as well. A sash of it lay crosswise from his shoulder to waist, alongside a wide leather strap that buckled just below his collarbone. It was emblazoned with the chantry's sigil which, in Hawke's opinion, was a vast improvement over the usual poorly-placed relief of Andraste's unfortunate face.

He also had several daggers and knives on him in various places, which gave Hawke pause. He was a master archer well enough, but he was absolutely _useless_ with knives. Though even if they were entirely ornamental, at least she knew where to find some if she needed them.

Then she saw that _all_ of the men were so decoratively armed, and it occurred to her that perhaps this was why Starkhaven had a reputation for being so peaceful.

Damned if it all didn't look far too perfect on him. Even as he simply stood, glancing toward the door or waiting for the Bann, he exuded a kind of quiet nobility that was humble, yet impossibly strong. She had no doubt that the guests tonight would take one look at him and immediately understand who – and what – they were looking at.

As she took in the royal sight before her, a memory flashed in the front of her mind. The two of them, Varric, and Fenris coming back from Sundermount after a rainstorm, a few rocks coming loose from a cliff above them and letting loose a flood of mud and muck and debris to absolutely _cover _the group. She couldn't contain her laughter as Sebastian looked down disdainfully at the filth covering his bright white armor, and as they all acknowledged that they couldn't get any more disgusting, fistfuls of mud were flung about among them until they found a nearby stream.

She wondered if he'd ever look that truly relaxed and happy again after he became ruler of this place, and the thought wound itself around her heart with a good squeeze.

"We've a few moments' wait," he continued, leaning back against the balcony next to her. "There are several sets of minor nobles to be introduced first." His brow crinkled in a slight frown. "And Lord MacLeigh brought all _five_ of his daughters."

"I can't tell if that's impressive or desperate." She laughed a little, nudging him with her shoulder in an attempt to ease some of the tension radiating from the archer. "Come on," she said playfully, "we've gone through worse, and this time, at least we're better dressed."

He chuckled, easing a bit. "True." His eyes swept her form for what had to be the tenth time since she'd first joined the others in the foyer at the Bann's city manor. The unrestrained smile on his face at the sight of her in the finery of his homeland had damn near melted her heart with its brilliance and warmth.

"I've had the good fortune to see you in dresses on more than one occasion in the last four days," he said with a glint in his eye, "which may exceed the last ten years of your life combined."

"Entirely possible. And again, not by choice." She planted her hands on her hips. "Remember, _I_ wanted to wear my armor tonight."

"So you reminded us. Repeatedly." He straightened up as the Bann motioned from the far end of the veranda. "It seems our introduction approaches."

The two walked to the enormous doors where MacDougall stood with Aeryn beside him. "Our names're already on th' list," he said, thumbing to the short line of nobles on the carpet at the end of the hall, and the herald's voice echoed faintly. "Remember your marks, th' ones we talked about, and try not t' punch anyone."

He stared pointedly at Hawke as he added that last bit, then to Aeryn, and both smiled innocently.

"A lady would _never,_" the champion replied.

"Yes, father, _never._"

He raised one eyebrow, but said nothing as he offered his hand for his daughter to take. They made their way to the end of the line, and Hawke felt Sebastian's hand seek hers. She took a steadying breath, her other hand on her abdomen to calm the flutterings that had suddenly sprung to life.

Seeing this out of the corner of his eye, the prince squeezed her hand in his. "You perfectly look the part, Hawke. And my people will love you."

She smiled weakly. "Fancy parties aren't really my thing. I'd prefer a pack of darkspawn any day of the week."

He chuckled as he began leading her down the hall toward the entrance. After a few steps, Hawke's feet stopped them both, and she turned up to her companion.

"Hey," she said, tugging lightly on his sleeve, "a kiss for courage?"

He blinked in surprise at the request, apparently taken aback at such an uncharacteristic display of femininity from the fearsome warrior in finery beside him. After a moment, however, he reached his free hand to tilt her chin.

Hawke's stomach knotted as he planted a warm, lingering kiss on her cheek, forehead brushing against her face almost feather-light as he pulled back.

On the cheek, she groused, the unresolved tension coiled in her belly still present as he offered his arm and she slipped her hand around it. That kiss had been affectionate, but pure. Just like the man himself.

She wondered when that purity had become painful for her to endure as they closed the distance to the herald.

* * *

><p>"Lord and Lady Deòir."<p>

Sebastian watched as the velvet-clad pair descended the short steps into the Great Hall. The balustrades were wound with garlands of flowers and swathes of gold and red textiles, matching the spirals that crept up the columns and crossbeams. Banners hung from every surface, and there wasn't a square foot that wasn't decorated with either bright florals or waves of vibrant cloth.

Yes, he thought to himself as he surveyed the room. This was exactly as he knew the Great Hall should be. Overflowing with color and music and food and _life_.

How he had missed this.

"Lord Alonso Barocci Messina of Antiva and daughter Silvana."

The man's capelet practically _fluttered_ as he walked his daughter down the steps, Sebastian noted. Starkhaven and Antiva had always had close ties in one way or another due to their sheer proximity, so it was no surprise that there were a number of Antivan nobles present. Their flashy fashion contrasted against the crowd, all scalloped edges and tassels and embroidery. Only the few Orlesians below held a candle to the fearsome gaudiness that Antiva City's finery boasted.

Though there was no way the Starkhaven nobility would allow Goran to take a foreign bride with so much at stake within the court, he knew. The ambassadors and dignitaries attended merely as a formality. As did he and Hawke, if anyone were to ask.

"Guinn MacDougall, Bann of Shallervale, and daughter Aeryn."

His enormous friend strode ahead, wasting no time in greeting those he knew. "Iain, you great ass!" he bellowed, clapping a shorter man on the shoulder. "How's th' wife?"

A shudder from his right vibrated up his arm, and he saw Hawke stifling a snicker in his peripheral vision. She visibly relaxed, and he thanked the Maker that he counted a man such as the Bann as an ally. He – and Hawke – would greatly need it.

They stepped forward, and the herald ran his eyes over the names on his list. With a start, the pudgy, stout man looked up at them, then back down at the list.

_Yes, _Sebastian said to himself, _you read that right._

To his credit, the herald simply cleared his throat before announcing them without any indication of his surprise.

"Sebastian Vael of the Kirkwall Chantry," he called, "and Mairead Hawke of the Kirkwall Amells, Champion of Kirkwall."

The room quieted noticeably, hundreds of heads turning to catch a glimpse of the two as they descended the stairs arm-in-arm. He expected this; one of the most talked-about women in the Free Marches had come to Starkhaven with the long-absent youngest prince. It was a wonder that the hall wasn't silent entirely.

The best way to break the sudden spotlight was to blend into conversation, he thought, but found himself unsure where to start. The feel of so many eyes on him was heavy, and while he was accustomed to it, he had a feeling that Hawke would appreciate the novelty being over as quickly as possible.

"Sebastian!" a voice called to his left, and he turned to see a familiar face pushing through the crowd. "You useless git, how've you been?!"

The archer laughed and clasped the man's hand. "Sean," he said warmly, happy to see one of his childhood friends. The first son of one of his father's advisors, Sean Lachlan was his age, and the two were often left to their own devices during meetings of state. He couldn't count the number of times they'd been scolded together, always in vain. "It's good to see you, old friend."

"And you," he nodded, "though I'd happily join you in Kirkwall if it meant finding a companion as lovely as yours." He turned to Hawke with a dazzling smile, one that had gotten him into (and out of) a lot of trouble as a youth. Sebastian saw a knowing smirk cross her pretty face, and she slid her hand out from his arm as Sean reached for it.

"Sean Lachlan," he introduced himself, pressing a kiss to the backs of her fingers. "The rumors do you no justice, my lady Champion."

"Please," she said with a smile. "Any friend of Sebastian's may call me Hawke. And I suspect the rumors also describe me as eight feet tall and with swords for arms?"

He laughed, and as they fell into easy conversation, Sebastian noticed the crowd slowly returning to their own goings-on, the tension in the room replaced by occasional curious glances and hushed whispers.

It was some time later, after Sean had excused himself to see to his brothers and a dozen other guests had come up to greet them, that MacDougall came over to casually check on their progress.

"Well," he said, grinning, "Ye weren't challenged on sight, that's a good sign."

Sebastian smiled, nodding to a courtier who waved as she passed by. "I confess to being quite surprised by the warm welcome. I had thought there would be too much..." He struggled for the right word. "Hesitation? Resentment? Suspicion, perhaps?"

"Or," Hawke said, grinning up at him, "maybe you were more well-liked here than you realize."

Her words and smile were like a ray of sun, and the warmth blossomed outward, down to his fingertips as they itched to take her hand.

"Still," the Bann said, "give it a bit and I'm sure you'll be th' center of attention in no time at all. Once this lot gets over themselves."

"For him, maybe," the champion frowned. "Other than a few, most people seem to be avoiding me."

"Ye're a dragonslayer," Guinn laughed, patting her on the head patronizingly. "Reputation for cutting down anyone who looks at ye the wrong way. Got t' show them you're friendly and approachable."

She crossed her arms. "You're saying that they're _afraid _of me?"

"_Aye_."

She began to protest, but a voice from behind the Bann interrupted her before she even began.

"Alas, such a shame," came a honeyed Antivan accent. "They deprive themselves of such charming company."

The Bann raised an eyebrow and stepped aside, revealing a slender blond elf in Antivan finery, two river-like tattoos running down the side of his handsome face and amber-gold eyes regarding Hawke fondly.

Sebastian saw the spark of recognition in her eyes, and the resulting brightness that it brought to her face gave him pause.

"Zevran," she sighed, "what a sight for sore eyes."

The elf threw his head back and laughed, an infectious, charismatic sound. As he took her hands in his and kissed each cheek, he smirked from ear to ear. "Is Kirkwall really so dismal?" She began to speak, but he waved one hand. "No, do not answer. I do not wish to recall the smell."

She snickered, and the Bann cleared his throat. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I didn't even- ! Let me introduce you." She stepped back, gesturing to each person as she spoke. "This is Zevran Arainai, a... friend of a friend I helped out of a scuffle some time back, though now I like to think of him as a friend of mine in his own right."

The elf feigned surprise, but there was a light in his eyes. "Oh, truly? I am touched."

She ignored him as she continued. "Zevran, this is Bann MacDougall of Shallervale, his daughter Aeryn, and Sebastian Vael, a companion of mine from Kirkwall."

Zevran bowed curtly to the first two, but lingered on Sebastian. His eyes, once warm and inviting, were abruptly sharp and calculating as they latched onto his face.

The prince suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that there was much more to this man than met the eye.

And just as it was there, the danger was gone. His smooth elven features relaxed into a smirk, and he tapped a finger to his lips. "Ah, the rumored prodigal son. Why am I entirely unsurprised to find him in your company, my dear champion?"

"What can I say?" she shrugged. "I attract interesting people."

"I should say so," he purred in response. He nodded politely as the Bann and Aeryn were pulled away by a tall, thin man and his tiny wife. "I had heard that Starkhaven was prized for its sheep," he said after they were out of earshot, "but not a word about the bears!"

Laughing, Hawke pinched the elf's nose playfully. Seeing the familiar gesture applied to this easy-mannered stranger settled a stone of unease in Sebastian's gut.

"You are Antivan, then," he asked, "on a pleasure visit?"

Zevran sighed, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, no. I find myself in your delightful city on a matter of business. Of a... delicate nature."

Hawke tilted her head. "Crows, then."

"My dear lady, it _is_ Antiva." He smirked as he leaned in a bit closer, inclining his head slightly. "Though we do get around a surprising amount."

The prince's blood ran cold. An Antivan Crow. He'd never before met one, but he'd heard the stories throughout his childhood and well into his adult years: deadly, ruthless, and unsurpassed in the art of murder. They never moved without a purpose.

"What business," he asked slowly, carefully, "would a Crow have here?"

Gold eyes snapped to his, and a cold smile wound its way onto well-practiced lips. "_Former_ Crow," the elf clarified. Again, that chill was replaced frighteningly fast with charisma and a theatrical sigh. "A wise career move, if I do say so myself. All of the skill and connections, none of the commitment!"

"Skills relevant," Sebastian repeated, "to the business you have here?"

"Ah, no, not of that particular sort." He gracefully plucked a glass of wine from a servant's tray, lifting it to his lips. "I am merely here to observe."

"Then, if you would indulge me."

The elf raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of his drink, then glanced to Hawke. "I must admit," he chuckled, "your royal friend is as interesting as he is _dashingly_ handsome."

"He doesn't like to be anything but straightforward," she explained with an apologetic smile. "You get used to it."

That elicited another sharp laugh from the assassin, who gave Sebastian a short nod of approval. "Very well," he said, tapping one polished fingernail against the glass. "My task is innocent enough, and if it would put you at ease..." As he spoke, he leaned back against a heavily-decorated pillar. "I am here in place of one Lord Pietro Lorenze of Rialto, an ambassador to your fair city. The man has made a few unfortunately well-connected enemies and thus finds himself rather unwilling to leave his comfortably guarded estate." His eyes swept a young Orlesian woman appreciatively as she walked by. "Fortunately, I happened to avail myself to his service for a _very_ reasonable price."

"So you're going to report the machinations of his rivals while they're here?" Hawke asked.

"Precisely." He smirked, deftly swiping another glass of wine from a passing tray and handing it to the Champion. "Beauty, intelligence, and formidable battle prowess. Perhaps I should take to following dragons in my spare time in hopes of meeting more such women?"

"Speaking of Cadhla," the Champion interrupted, "have you seen her recently? We'd been exchanging letters, but lately..."

He shook his head, flaxen strands drifting artfully into his face. "On and off, I suppose. Our paths have not had reason to cross of late. She has, quite understandably, had her hands rather full since wedding and taking up the mantle of Commander. Though I find the idea of either equally torturous. And yet..." He picked up her left hand, waving it a little. "You are still delightfully untethered, I see! Such injustice must be a_ crime_ somewhere in Thedas."

"One that will be rectified shortly," Sebastian interjected, catching the elf's wrist. Their eyes met, and Zevran seemed to delight in the prickling he'd caused.

"Oh_ ho_," the Antivan chuckled, releasing her hand obligingly. "Is that how it is?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Hawke said with a smug grin, "but think of it this way: here, I'll be _that_ much closer to Antiva."

He laughed, finishing his wine and handing the empty glass off to a server. "Ah, how you love to torture me, my dear champion. I had forgotten."

"Did you also forget that I told you to call me Hawke?"

"And address a future princess by name?" He clucked his tongue. "It would cause a _scandal_, dear lady." Something in the distance caught his eye. "Ah, you see! It seems your presence is required elsewhere." He pointing to Aeryn's motions for Hawke to join her. "Please, go. I do not mind in the least."

"All right," she said as she turned, "but swear you'll find me again later."

"Darkspawn could not keep me away," he promised, crossing his heart, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving the elf and Sebastian alone in an uncomfortable silence.

Zevran motioned for a servant to bring over a platter of wineglasses, taking two and silently handing one to the prince.

"I – thank you," Sebastian said, sipping delicately.

They observed the rest of the guests quietly for a few long moments, and the archer found himself wondering just what kind of situation had landed his future bride an acquaintance with what promised to be a _very_ dangerous Antivan assassin.

Said assassin spoke first, turning slightly to regard him, glass in hand. "I have heard stories of you, you know."

Sebastian sighed despite himself. "I can only imagine."

That brought a smirk to Zevran's face, and he continued. "It seems you were a consummate whorehound before your stint in the Chantry." He moved to face him fully, curious now. "I wonder how I could not have seen you at the brothels in this area at least once – I thought myself a connoisseur of such comforts."

"Even if you had," the prince said, taking a larger sip than may have been necessary, "it has been some years. You may well have forgotten." _Thank the Maker._

"No," the elf chuckled, low and sultry, "I would have remembered a face such as _yours._"

At that, Sebastian coughed quietly into one fist, shifting his feet. He had to have been mistaken. There was no way the assassin was _hitting on him_, especially so publicly.

"I imagine that the famous husky Starkhaven brogue was especially effective," Zevran continued calmly. "Such an enviable asset!"

The prince felt the corners of his lips tug upwards into a ever-so-small smirk. "You imply that your own is any less profitable," he said. "I know many who would beg to differ."

"This may be true," the elf replied, a glint in his eye, "but Antiva is, naturally, filled with such tongues. Lovely as it is, there are times when silk is dismissed in favor of something... rougher, no? Like leather..." he drew out the last words meaningfully. "_Strong_ and_ thick_."

Sebastian swallowed hard. His eyes swept the room quickly, looking for signs of his escort. Andraste's grace, _where_ was Hawke when he needed her?

As the shorter man stepped toward him, he felt himself involuntarily take a tiny step back. Those amber-gold eyes were perilously focused, and he felt warmth creeping up his neck.

"I–" he began to protest, "_Maker_, I'm... I'm not –"

Zevran grinned, waving it off with one hand. "Do not look so frightened, my friend! Like you, I simply prefer being straightforward. And if I may continue our mutual trend..." He tilted his head, studying the prince curiously. "I assume your _inamorata_ knows of your, shall we say, _indulgent_ past?"

That slapped the awkwardness out of Sebastian like an open palm.

"I make no effort to hide it," he told the blond elf staring intently up at him. "Years in the Chantry have given me time to reflect on my behavior and come to accept the various consequences it brings. I find myself able to talk of it freely now, and Hawke has not once voiced an objection."

"Mm," Zevran murmured, and the prince wasn't quite able to place the look in his eyes that didn't exactly match the smile below. After a moment of thought, the elf nodded an assent and stepped back. "But that is neither here nor there. It is a smart match indeed," he said, "and _remarkably_ advantageous, I might add. You are a fortunate man, my friend."

At that, Sebastian relaxed a bit into an earnest smile. "I know."

"Then again," the Antivan continued with a broad, unabashed smirk, "she may be as fortunate herself, if some of the more... _colorful_ stories about you hold delicious morsels of truth." He winked warmly, and politely inclined his head as he made his seamless disappearance into the crowd.

_Colorful stories._ Sebastian arched one eyebrow and sipped his wine as he wondered just _who,_ exactly, the suspiciously well-informed elf had been talking to.

* * *

><p>"There you are," Aeryn said as she sought out Hawke's arm. "There's someone here I want you to meet."<p>

She was smiling too stiffly and squeezing too hard. Clearly, this was not an 'I like this person _so very much_' introduction, Hawke realized.

"This," the Bann's daughter said, gesturing to her arm-locked social prisoner, "is Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. Lady Champion, this is Lady Sutherland and her daughter, Marianne."

_That_ pulled up a flag in Mairead's memory, the section where she stored the points the Bann had drilled into her skull. Sutherland. Sutherland, Sutherland...

"Marianne and I used to play together as children when I accompanied my father to the city," Aeryn continued, drawing out her words meaningfully. "We are the _same age_."

Ah, there it was. Marianne Sutherland, one of the two top contenders for Goran's bride. Hawke forced her well-practiced placid smile and inclined her head politely. "A pleasure to meet you both," she said. "Any friend of Aeryn's is a friend of mine."

"The Champion of Kirkwall, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Sutherland. "We had no idea that such a guest would be attending our modest little party."

Such a guest. Modest little party.

_Maker,_ Hawke thought as she listened to the woman prattle on. She hoped that laying it on so obviously thick wasn't her strategy for wooing Goran.

She took the sudden lack of need for her part in the conversation to get a better look at her marks. The Lady herself was middle-aged, wearing the hair wrappings of a widow over gray-tinted black hair. Just a touch too much makeup, too. Her daughter, on the other hand, was impeccable. Marianne had thick, straight-as-silk black hair woven into a gold-draped plait over one shoulder. Her skin was fair, making her dark eyes even more piercing, and as she sighed quietly at her mother's endless chatter, Hawke understood clearly why she stood ahead of the others.

Getting back into the conversation was like playing skipping-rope. With eight ropes. Luckily, Hawke was a practiced acrobat.

"Have you greeted Goran yet tonight?" she queried, indicating the head table. "I have not yet been able to properly introduce myself and congratulate him on his celebration."

The lady's mouth snapped shut like a goat's, eyes suddenly narrow and calculating. _Ah,_ Hawke thought, filing each tiny micro-reaction away to analyze later. _Let's start playing, shall we?_

"We have not," the widow said slowly, "though it is of _utmost_ priority. He and Marianne are _very_ close, after all."

"Is that so?" The Champion feigned surprise. "She must be a very accomplished young lady, then."

"I should say so!" Sutherland scoffed. "She sings, speaks three languages, and has never lifted a hand in anger, much less touched a weapon!"

Ignoring what was clearly meant to be a sting, instead encouraged by the defensive tone, Hawke pressed onward. "I should like to meet the prince even _more_ now," she mused aloud, "if you have deemed him worthy of your exceptional daughter."

"Yes, _of course_ you would." There was practically a sneer across the older woman's face, and Mairead was nearly giddy. How could she have not known that women's fighting could be this _fun?_

"And how should we introduce you, then?" She looked Hawke up and down distastefully. "Dragonslayer," she suggested, voice dripping with poison, "Champion of that chaotic mess, pulverizer of vagrants?"

"Cousin, I should think," said pulverizer offered politely, "seeing as I am betrothed to Sebastian Vael, his Highness' own blood."

Lady Sutherland's expression changed, then, and Hawke reined in the smugness that threatened to creep onto her face. _Yes,_ she pleaded internally, _engaged to the man who could take the throne. Who _you_ could have paid to be kidnapped, put your precious potential royal connection in jeopardy – feel free to try something. Right. Now._

To her surprise, the other woman instead relaxed visibly, a warm smile crossing thin lips. "You don't say!"

Hawke blinked. Wait, hearing Sebastian's name made this woman _happy?_ Had she missed something?

"Congratulations are in order, then!" She nudged Marianne, who murmured a polite string of halfhearted felicitations. Her mother either didn't care or didn't notice. "A man who has spent time in the Chantry will make a fine, gentle husband!" she exclaimed. "You _must_ invite us to the wedding!"

"Only if you will invite us to Marianne's," Aeryn said with a wide, knowing smile. "We shall keep an eye out for a notice."

Lady Sutherland laughed coyly behind one hand, letting loose a flurry of "Oh, you really think so"s and "I shan't say a word"s and the occasional giggle.

Puzzled, Hawke only managed to smile and nod as she tried to figure out what in Andraste's Holy Bosoms had just happened. She looked to Marianne, who kept an eye on Goran's table, subtly tapping her mother's arm when the prince was unoccupied.

Realization washed over Hawke with that small gesture. The lady was reassured because she had thought that the Champion of Kirkwall had come here with designs on Goran. But if she was marrying Sebastian, she was one less competitor she had to deal with, and no threat at all.

As Marianne and her mother excused themselves to the high table, Hawke schooled her features. Scratch that one off the list. She turned to look for her intended...

...and instead found herself looking into a sea of black velvet, topped with an enormous carrot-red beard.

How such a big man as the Bann managed to be so stealthy, she would never understand.

"So?" he asked. "What do ye read off th' Sutherlands?"

Hawke shook her head. "She's not our culprit. She was ecstatic to hear that I wasn't competing with Marianne for Goran. Couldn't give two thoughts to Sebastian." She scanned the crowd. "Where does that leave us?"

"Bann Loudain," came the gruff reply, the giant man waving someone over. "Remember what I told ye?"

"Horace Loudain," the Champion repeated. "Bann of Estonborough. Wife Elewynn. Daughter Cora, neck-to-neck with Marianne if we were the betting sort."

"Aye." He adjusted one of his half-dozen brooches and snorted. "Man's been elbow-deep buried in greeting nobles. Haven't had a chance t' talk to him or his yet."

Sebastian came up beside him, having seen the beckon. "You've news?"

"It's not Sutherland," Hawke explained. She frowned, looking behind the archer. "Where's Zevran?"

He cleared his throat. "He, ah, had other matters to attend to."

A grin spread across her cheeks as she saw the look on Sebastian's face when she mentioned the elf. _Oh, Zevran._

Still smiling, she stood on her tiptoes to peer over at the head table. "There's someone else I haven't yet met tonight. Is he there?"

"Ye mean Goran?" The Bann scratched his beard. "He's there, all right." A deep, rumbling chuckle reverberated from his chest. "And th' poor sod looks petrified. Always was the nervous sort."

"Aye," Sebastian agreed. "Even Cendre didn't have it in her to bully the lad."

The crowd parted enough for them to glimpse the seat of honor, its occupant flocked by important-looking dignitaries and daughters, the tops of their breasts bobbing like jellyfish in a sea of cleavage.

Determinedly, Hawke clapped her hands. "All right," she said. "Let's go make some introductions."


	10. The Prince and the Puppetmaster

A/N: And here we meet the pretender Prince. There is dancing, plotting, Zevran – all the trappings of a good party.

* * *

><p>"Your Highness, may I introduce Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall."<p>

As the crown prince's private herald moved aside, Hawke pulled out her best Highborn-and-Only-Mildly-Interested smile. It was a practiced skill, and one that was being utilized to its fullest tonight.

Goran sat there in the seat of honor at the head table, and the Champion swept him with her eyes as she curtsied. He was at least a head shorter than Sebastian, pudgy, and soft brown curls peeked out from around his coronet. It was simple, an aged gold ring with a leaf-and-vine design cut from the center band, and it looked slightly big for him as he adjusted it awkwardly. His face, though bearing a few slight similarities to Sebastian's, was unremarkable. Hazel-brown irises peered out from wide-set eyes, and he scratched the flat, square tip of his nose and smiled a bit as Hawke straightened up.

"Champion," he said, and the nervousness in his voice did little to mask an unexpected gentleness that she found rather disarming. His accent, though obvious, was not nearly as thick as most of her company's. "I had no idea that you would be in attendance."

She laughed, smoothing the plaid that draped across her skirts. "It was something of a last-minute decision. But I'd heard all about Starkhaven from Sebastian and had to come see it for myself."

At the mention of his cousin's name, Goran's posture shifted up. "And Sebastian arrived with you, did he not?"

"I am here, cousin." The archer stepped forward, and Goran stood, smiling.

"Sebastian. It is good to see you." He extended a hand, and Sebastian clasped his wrist warmly.

"As you say," he said, blue eyes catching briefly on the royal circlet, and Hawke might've been the only one who noticed. "You've grown taller since we last met!"

Goran ducked his head sheepishly, and the Champion found herself with the sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake the meekness out of him. Or strip him of his shirt to check and make sure that he did, in fact, possess a spine. This was the farthest thing from what she had been expecting, and his complete lack of presence was draining the steam from her theories.

"It has been over ten years, cousin," he replied, "since the hunt where, if I'm not mistaken, you had your bow taken from you?"

It took a moment, but Hawke watched as it dawned on Sebastian just _which_ hunt he was referring to. "Ah," he smiled. "That it was. Mother was furious."

"What had you done?" she prodded, and he turned to her sporting a grin laced with wickedness.

"I attempted to disappear with the kennel-master's daughter," he said. "Unfortunately, when one spends the majority of their time with hunting dogs, said dogs come to know your scent quite well." Chuckling, he shook his head. "We were discovered within an hour."

Hawke stifled a laugh. "I can only imagine the scolding you both got."

"I was forbidden from joining the hunt for the rest of the week!" A glint graced his eyes at the memory. "I was terribly cross at the time. Felt it was quite the unjust punishment for the amount of dalliance one can commit in half an hour."

Snickering, she crossed her arms and grinned up at him. "You just don't know how to manage your time wisely, then."

"Oh?" _That_ got his attention.

She turned from him then, back to Goran. "You must have some _stories_ about this one! I would love to hear them, if you ever have the time."

The crown prince managed a weak smile and nodded obligingly. "I would be happy to, Champion–" he hesitated, quickly adding: "-if my schedule permits. I'm... afraid I find my days rather full of late. But I'll confer with my advisor and see if he can find a few spare moments."

"Your advisor?" She tilted her head, interest piqued. "I haven't met many of the court here yet."

"I suppose you will meet him, eventually. Though he may be a busy man." Suddenly, a flash of blue appeared at his elbow, and the rest of the man moved to join it.

"Speaking of me, I assume."

"Loudain. Yes."

Hawke knew that name, though the face that went along with it was new. Horace Loudain practically towered over Goran, the dark blue of his tartan over the black doublet making him resemble a plaid shadow. His face was square, dark eyes under thick eyebrows and an equally thick beard. He was handsome, no doubt, but looked far too severe to take advantage of his fortunate features.

And, she noted, he was _very_ quick to attach himself to the crown prince's side when she and Sebastian were near.

_Interesting._

"Loudain," her intended said, extending a hand. "Bann of Estonborough? You may not remember me, as I was a lad when last we met."

The Bann clasped his wrist after a moment's hesitation. "Sebastian, your father's youngest. How could I forget?" With a slight curve to tight lips, he added: "You name was often whispered among the women and castle staff."

"As I am well aware, though I assure you: those days are long behind me."

"Yes," the bearded man replied, studying him thoroughly and eyes alighting upon the sigil across the youngest prince's chest. "The Chantry, was it?"

"Aye, by the Maker's grace."

Irritated disbelief traveled briefly across the Bann's face, put away neatly when he turned to Hawke. "And your lady. A brother of the faith travels with such... illustrious company?"

"I begged to come," she told him, straight-faced and looking him right in the eye. "I so rarely get the opportunity to wear fancy gowns."

She didn't waiver in her eye contact as to her left, Sebastian's shoulders trembled with the effort of fighting down his laughter.

"You honor us with your presence, Champion," Loudain said dryly as he brought his lips to the back of her hand.

"The honor is mine," she returned, trying to keep the sarcastic simper from her voice. "Such a wonderful celebration brings joy to a heart saddled with the worries of an entire city."

"I am glad," the Bann said slowly, carefully considering his next words and regarding her with a cautious tone. "Though I hear there may be cause for _some_ joy in your Kirkwall."

He glanced between her and Sebastian, and she understood his meaning. MacDougall had been entirely right - tell a handful of courtiers something discreetly, and it spreads faster than if you'd handed out leaflets.

Her intended had apparently caught the intonation and sought out her hand, taking it between his and kissing the tops of her fingertips meaningfully. Hawke approved of the gesture, as they both knew it would leave no doubts in their company's mind and likely spark even more whispers.

Sebastian might have had a better understanding of the rumor mill than she gave the man credit for. And, not for the first time, she wondered just how much gossip flew among the sheltered Chantry sisters behind closed doors.

"Aye," the archer murmured, "_great_ joy. Though a recent development."

"Then you must accept my well-wishes."

Loudain's face didn't match his words in any way, shape, or form. He looked tense, Hawke thought, like he'd just eaten something unpleasant, and anything _but _congratulatory.

His expression read, she noted with some amusement, that this was a _huge_ pain in his backside.

When she glanced to Goran, however, she got hit with an entirely different story. The crown prince looked utterly spent, and he appeared ten pounds thinner and half-starved while staring at the intersection of their hands. There was no anger or anxiety when presented with his cousin's betrothal, just... exhaustion, perhaps? Weariness?

It felt distinctly _off_ to Hawke, and she did her best to focus on Sebastian's fingers while her analytical brain ran a mile a minute. She needed space to think, a moment away from the situation to get a better grip and tumble it around her skull in peace.

Thankfully, the musicians began the stirrings of a new set, and she leapt at the opportunity. "Not to be rude," she said with an embarrassed smile, pulling her hand free, "but could I steal Sebastian away? He promised to dance with me at least once tonight."

"Of course," Goran replied with an awkward wave of his hand. "Please, go."

"Yes," agreed Loudain. "Go."

Hawke beamed enthusiastically at the Bann, his words sharp in her ears.

_Not on your life,_ she declared mentally as she pulled Sebastian to the dance floor.

* * *

><p>As the syncopated Orlesian number began, Sebastian couldn't help but smile at Hawke's face. She had her less-than-pleased concentrating look on, and something was clearly frustrating his betrothed.<p>

"What are your thoughts?" he prodded, the hand on her back sliding as he brought her a bit closer to avoid the other dancers. "Did you see something?"

"I might have." She frowned, deep in thought, and he noted with some amusement that her steps were perfectly in sync with his when she wasn't paying attention to them. Though if he pointed it out now, he was sure she would fuss at him. Which, all things told, was sorely tempting.

"Loudain didn't like us talking to Goran," she started, turning under his arm. "And the man didn't let him get two words in edgewise once he showed up. _And_ we still don't have definite evidence to tie him to that incident at the village, and we can't exactly ask your cousin if he knows anything. Something tells me that Lord Stick-Up-His-Arse doesn't let Goran talk much, if he can help it."

"I agree." The prince nodded thoughtfully, deftly sidestepping the couple next to them. "Watches him as sharp as a falcon, guards him closely as well. It seems as though he's integrated himself like a weed's roots into the prince himself in addition to the court."

"And I'm sure that pairing his daughter to the crown prince would only make him nigh-invincible," she muttered. "I almost feel bad for your cousin. He looks utterly miserable."

Sebastian stiffened. The one person he did _not_ need to hear second-guessing was Hawke. He had waded through enough self-doubt and hesitation to fill the span of six years with a waist-high river. "Hawke," he said firmly, "do not stay your hand out of sympathy. You cannot. He is a puppet, manipulated at the expense of the safety and happiness of thousands for one man's selfish designs." He couldn't keep the apologetic tone out of his voice as he continued. "This is not a matter of compassion, _mo gràidh_."

The completely subconscious use of the endearment softened his words, though he was unsure of the effect they'd had on his dance partner. Judging from her expression, they had completely interrupted her thoughts.

"What was that last bit?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "You, ah, seem confused."

She shook her head. "Not confused, just..." She smiled up at him, and the hand squeezing his sent a warm shudder tracing down the muscles of his chest.

"Impressed," she finished, rapping one fist against his chest lightly. "You sounded like a different man just now."

"And that pleases you?"

"In a way." She smirked, reaching around his shoulder and pressing a few fingers into the back of his neck, pinpointing his vertebrae. "Just proved that when it comes to your homelands, you have a _spine_. It will make you a fine leader."

Her encouragement heartened his pride, and his doubts were eased somewhat. "Glad I am, then, to have your confidence."

"You know you do." With a snicker, she ducked her head and muttered under her breath. "Now, if only you would prove that you had a _cock_–"

Sebastian tripped.

Hawke's eyes widened, hands flying to cover her mouth.

"Oh, Maker," she hissed through her fingers. "I said that _out loud_, didn't I?"

Before he could answer, she took a step back. The song had only just ended, and as the strings of the next began, she pulled a glass of wine from the nearest server and downed it in one long swallow.

"I think I need some air," she managed, pressing her hands to her neck as she made for one of the verandas.

The prince leaned against a pillar as he watched her go, and he couldn't help but chuckle in equal parts disbelief and amusement. _That_ had been enlightening. "Willing to produce an heir" and "actively interested in taking a tumble" were two _very_ different entities altogether. He'd thought she'd merely been teasing him in the bath; she did like to make him writhe.

Well, at least he wasn't writhing alone.

He wasn't sure if the newfound knowledge that Hawke was _quite_ so interested would make his decision to remain abstinent until they exchanged vows that much easier or that much worse. On the one hand, it was easier to endure if one wasn't suffering alone, but on the other, knowing that all it took was being a bit authoritative and she had...

_Authoritative._ Which leant itself well to a whole host of things. The image of Hawke thrown across his lap with her hands bound suddenly presented itself to him, and he could almost feel the stinging of his palms as he brought them down hard across her bared backside.

As his imagination grabbed hold and his blood started to rise, he stood from the pillar and cleared his throat, beelining for an open door to the night sky.

It seemed he needed some air, too.

* * *

><p>It was nearly an hour of being bombarded with greetings and introductions before Hawke found enjoyable conversation again, this time with men all wearing emerald green tunics that bore the signature running stallions of Tantervale's horsemasters. She was all too eager to speak fondly of her own horse, and they seemed completely entertained by her enthusiasm.<p>

"...and then, after about the tenth try, I finally hooked my foot into the stirrup and got a good enough grip to pull myself over!"

"Gryphon," Sebastian half-asked, half-stated over her shoulder.

"Of course!" she exclaimed brightly, greeting him as he walked up. "I was just telling them about the other day when Eoin taught me the running mount."

"I see." He turned to the four men, a slightly exasperated smile on his face. "I apologize for my companion," he said. "She is... _very_ attached to her mount, and is happy to talk about him. At length."

The first of them laughed, waving it off. "No, not at all. We appreciate those who care as much about their horses as the Champion does."

"In Tantervale," the fourth added, "there is a saying that a horsemaster's first horse is oft more boasted about than his first child."

"You're all horsemasters, then?" the prince asked, turning to each of them. "Quite a journey."

"Two days as the crow flies," one said as he adjusted his belt, "though we stay for a week at a time. See the local breeding stock, perhaps bring back new blood, things like that."

Hawke wondered if Eoin knew these men, though she doubted _all _those from a certain city-state were acquainted. "Is Starkhaven known for its horses?"

"Not in particular," came the reply, "but some of the lords here pride themselves on breeding foreign bloodlines as a particular hobby."

"I see."

Suddenly, the two horses she'd brought back to MacDougall's second-in-command sprang to mind. Expensive, Eoin had said. But noble-breeding-expensive?

"If I wanted to learn more about horses while I was here," she asked slowly, carefully, "who would I ask? Other than you, obviously."

The men chuckled, looking at each other as they tossed names around.

"...MacNeill, a bit, though it's been a few years..."

"...but this spring, Lord Perth produced a beautiful..."

"...as for stables, I recall Loudain had the..."

"...doesn't Lady Nevain breed..."

"Excuse me," she interrupted. "Did you mention Bann Loudain? We've just met him."

"Yes," a blonde man confirmed as he scratched at the stubble across his chin. "He's one of the more prolific breeders in these parts. And very committed – if I remember right, he has three or four stables for his own private use."

Sebastian caught on quickly, feigning interest. "Three or four! Does he import many breeds?"

"No, just the one." The man to Sebastian's left shrugged. "He's the Marches' foremost expert on Tevinter Highwatches."

"Impressive name," Hawke said. "What are they known for?"

"Silence, mostly." The blonde again. "They're very quiet. And prized for being true black, almost blue, all over. A speck of white and they're worthless, so the bloodlines are pretty meticulously restricted."

"And they're worth quite a bit, I presume."

"A small fortune, to anyone worth half their salt."

Hawke shot Sebastian a meaningful look.

"You don't say."

It looked like their concrete tie to the Bann of Estonborough had hooves.

* * *

><p>"Black horses. That's what ye've got."<p>

The Bann of Shallervale raised an eyebrow down at Hawke as she proudly shared her discovery.

"Not just any black horses," she said, "_true_ black. And a specific breed!"

"That he sells t' other nobles?"

"Still." She crossed her arms as the giant appeared unconvinced. "What, do you have something better?"

"Might." He thumbed toward the far side of the hall, where there stood a set of massive doors that opened to the rest of the castle. "Spoke t' th' steward. Apparently Loudain's set himself up in th' palace proper. Has a set of rooms and all."

"_Really,_" Sebastian marveled, "as well as his city estate?"

Hawke frowned. "Is that normal?"

"Not by far," the archer explained, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Apartments in Arrow's Rest are reserved for temporary guests or relatives – only those that the royal family have need to see on a near-daily basis."

"I see," she murmured, craning her neck to see Loudain lean in to catch Goran's ear while a few ornately-dressed young women chattered away in front of him. "So by installing himself in the palace, he's basically broadcasting his hold on the prince."

"Exactly."

"Wow," she breathed, "he's not even _trying_ to hide it, is he?"

"Smug bastard." The Bann kept an eye on Aeryn, who stood conversing with her peers well within her father's line of sight. "He must be confident, then. Maker, it's almost like walking around with th' crown on his _own_ head."

"And no one opposes him?" she asked, incredulous. "You would think -"

"He's already deep in it," Guinn interrupted. "Harimann left a big hole when she disappeared. He swooped in and gathered up all th' work she'd done and turned it t' himself." Sighing, he glanced around the room. "Now with Cora aiming for the princess' seat, it's only a matter of time before th' Bann of Estonborough makes himself royalty by law, and then _no one_ can touch him."

"No wonder he's twitchy. He's still got a chink in his armor until the wedding happens." The Champion thought back to the night she'd let the messengers – which she was now all but convinced were Loudain's – return to their lord. "And he knows Sebastian's here. If he's our man, he's known for days now. Hard to imagine he's just planning on waiting patiently until we leave."

"My thoughts exactly," MacDougall agreed. "So I did a bit of snooping 'round."

The mental image of the enormous bearded man tiptoeing around the parapets rose up a snicker that Hawke shushed down.

"Seems Loudain spends a lot of time in th' map room of th' royal library," he continued, "using it as his own private office. Ducks in and out all th' time. And wouldn't ye know it, it's two corridors over."

He practically beamed as he said the last words meaningfully, staring down smugly at Hawke, who sighed.

"Damnit," Hawke muttered. "Yours _was_ better than mine."

* * *

><p>"They've changed the tapestries," Sebastian noted as they stepped out into one of the curved hallways. He heard the door click behind him, and Hawke dusted her skirts off roughly.<p>

"You used the servants' entrances a lot, I take it."

He smiled, inclining his head as he took in the new décor. "They had many uses beyond moving food and laundry back and forth. Especially when discretion was an absolute necessity."

"_So_ not surprised." She tugged on his sleeve, prompting him to come along. "I expect a tour of them later."

He turned to walk beside her, quickening his pace to lead the way. He knew these rooms like the back of his hand - he had spent a lot of time in the library as a young man, first to read, but later to make use of the small, oft-vacant Archivist's office beneath one set of stairs. It was a bit cramped for two, though personal space was never the issue. No, the main problem was that archival fluid burned like the Maker's wrath when it spilled on your–

He shuddered, ending _that_ memory right there.

Gently, he pushed open the double doors and was immediately swept with a wave of an all-too-familiar smell: musty pages and ink.

They stepped in, and his chest tightened at the sight of the same multi-level ladders, balconies, and cabinets that had been there since his boyhood. Books stretched up to the ceiling high above, and enormous dual-story windows spilled moonlight onto the tables in the middle of it all.

He used to sleep under those tables, he remembered, both as a boy when he exhausted himself reading and as a young man when he was hung over and wished to be left alone.

Hawke's voice snapped him back to the present.

"The map room," she asked. "Which way?"

Sebastian nodded, walking purposefully past a few large shelves and to the left. The door, though shut, swung open with ease, and his companion edged past him quietly to scope out the room before taking a few tentative steps toward the center.

The walls, lined with maps and tapestries and shallow cubbies, curved into an arch overhead, much lower than the main library's vaulted ceiling. The windows here, though small, were enough to provide illumination in streaks across the faded rugs and tables.

"Can you see well enough?" she asked quietly as she ran her fingertips along the cubbies. "Darkness is my specialty, but you..."

"Not to the level you can," he replied. "Though I can keep myself from walking into things."

"Good enough."

He watched her move from space to space, fascinated. Between her lighting-fast fingers and sharp eyes, not an inch of space went unchecked.

"What are we looking for?"

"Something new," she explained. "A lot of these are covered in dust. We want papers he's moved recently."

"Understood."

He didn't know where to start. There had to be hundreds of organized scrolls and leaflets against each wall. To the untrained eye, they all seemed to be old, abandoned, and useless. None of them had likely seen the light of day in –

His other thoughts ceased as it hit him. _Light. _If _he_ couldn't read these in the dark, then it was logical to assume that whoever spent time in here couldn't either. And that required a light source.

Eyes flicking to every horizontal surface, Sebastian quickly hit paydirt. "Hawke," he called in a whisper, "there."

He motioned for her to join him in a direct diagonal from where he was standing, indicating the buildup of wax drips spilling from the waist-high shelf down alongside the edge. "Someone spends a great deal of time here."

"Well done," she offered, punching him in the arm lightly. "You learn quickly!"

"I have a sneaking suspicion I picked up my attention to detail from playing cards with Isabela and Varric," he said with a smile as he leaned over to inspect the nearby documents. "One needs to keep an eye on three sets of hands at all times if one wishes for even the pretense of an honest game."

"They were training you like a mother cat teaches her kittens," Hawke said, doing the same on her side of the river of hardened wax. "For your own good."

"If you insist."

They worked in silence for a few moments before his partner whistled for him to look at something.

"Now why," she said slowly, "would you put a brand-new map in with musty old outdated ones, covered in an inch of dust?"

"If you didn't want anyone looking for it, I suppose," he answered, catching her meaning.

He helped her to spread out the small map across the top of the shelf, and as his gaze traveled across it, he found himself feeling more than a little self-conscious at discovering nothing amiss.

"The map is unremarkable," he said, tracing one hillside with his fingers. "It is Starkhaven as I know it; I see no odd marks."

Hawke grunted what he assumed was some kind of assent, and an instant later, her eyes lit up with discovery.

"That's because we weren't _meant_ to," she said, and instead of explaining, she pulled the parchment from the table and held it up to the light. To Sebastian's surprise, four tiny holes glittered brightly with the moonlight behind them, and a separate trail of them traced up from Kirkwall to the Shallervale keep, then up to the city proper.

Along the _exact_ path he and Hawke had taken.

"Pins," Hawke said aloud. "Though I'd rather..." She looked around. "Is there a wider reference we could use somewhere?"

"We passed one." He brought her to the circular table in the middle of the room, the top of which was painstakingly painted with a map of Starkhaven's lands, Arrow's Rest dead center.

"I've seen this before," she declared, brows knotting. "Where?"

"The Bann's city manor." The prince laid a hand on the polished surface. "There are seven in the set, each commissioned to be identical and given to the Banns of their respective lands. My great-grandfather– "

"Lovely." She thrust the parchment into his hands. "Here, hold this."

He did so, holding it spread facing her so that she could look back and forth between the two. With a bit of searching, she procured an inkwell and quill and moved to mark the wood. As he started to protest the vandalism of the historical strategy table, she sighed.

"All right, all right. I'll use something that can be cleaned." Without any hesitation whatsoever, she pulled one of the ornamental daggers from his accoutrements and pricked her fingertip, squeezing until a bright red drop welled atop the skin.

He abruptly snapped his mouth shut, observing as she marked the four separate pinholes at their relative location on the table. The tiny puddles glinted as she took a step back and stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth.

"Mean anything to you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "If we could bring a copy of this to the Bann somehow, we might be able to make something of it, but I'm sure they would notice if it went missing or–"

Footsteps and voices echoing in the library cut him short, and he felt a chill run down his spine.

"How can we explain – "

"Leave it to me," Hawke whispered, reaching for the clasps at her waist and shoulder. "Just put that back where it was!"

He did so with cautious steps, hearing the clink of armor steadily approaching. When he turned back to the table, he saw Hawke tugging her bodice free, the fastenings along her back undone. The long swatch of tartan that had been draped across her shoulder now pooled onto the floor, and she positioned herself at the table's edge.

"_Hawke,"_ he choked out in a forced whisper, "what in Andraste's name are you –"

She motioned him closer. "Play along," she whispered back, "and we'll get out no problem." As she leveled her eyes with his, Hawke reached out her hand.

"Trust me on this."

And damn him to the Deep Roads if he didn't take it. In an instant, he found himself pulled up against her, and he was keenly aware of how different her body felt when neither of them had the impediment of armor. Then she reached up to tangle her hands in his hair and yanked him down into a fierce, heated kiss that stole the breath out of his lungs.

"Pin me to my back," she issued against his ear.

He bit back a groan. "Hawke, I –"

"Just _do it."_ And when she bit at his earlobe to drive the command home, he found his flesh more than willing to oblige.

Her shoulders hit the old oak hard, and his weight pressed down on her despite his efforts to prop himself up on one elbow. He attempted a murmured apology, but was cut off when she caught his mouth again soundly, fingernails digging into the nape of his neck and the other arm snaking around to catch the table's edge and brace herself enough to wrap her legs around his thighs. Instinctively, his hips rolled into hers, and his hands buried themselves in fistfuls of plaid fabric tightly as a moan escaped her chest.

Sebastian's rational mind completely surrendered, and his long-repressed reflexes took over.

One hand grabbed her knee, yanking it up higher and expertly digging beneath layers of material to slide a hand up her skirts, running his palm along one taut thigh up to her hip. His fingers found the silk of her smalls, wrapping themselves in the the thin fabric and _twisting,_ pulling them tight against what they covered. As she gasped and arched her back, he muffled a groan against the crook of her neck. His other hand moved to her chest, palming the curve of one breast roughly as he lavished attention on the expanse of warm skin on her throat. Tongue chasing her pulse, the prince acutely heard every reaction that passed her lips and brought tremors beneath him. He ground his hips against hers again, which earned him a few breathy phrases in Qunari spoken like a prayer.

He was never going to be able to look at the Kossith the same way again.

As he dug his fingers into the skin of her hip, Sebastian prayed for something, _anything_ to pull this to a halt, because by the Maker, he couldn't stop himself. And not two seconds later, he was saved by the clink of armor and someone distinctly clearing his throat.

Startled, he turned to find two of the patrol guards standing at the door. One looked irritated, the other entertained.

"You must be Sebastian Vael," the latter said as the prince stood and Hawke sat upright. "Wife works in the kitchens." He grinned, looking rather validated. "When she heard you was here, she, ah, _warned_ me I might find you like this."

Sebastian sighed, and he wasn't sure if it was out of relief or exasperation. "I see."

"Sorry to interrupt," the other guard said stiffly, shifting uncomfortably, "but we'll have to escort you back to the hall. Under orders, you understand."

"Of course," Hawke said, and Sebastian raised an eyebrow as she did her best to look embarrassed. "We'll go back, but..." She smiled sheepishly, gesturing to her disheveled clothing. "Could you turn around while I...?"

"Of course, my lady," came the reply, and the guards obligingly waited in the doorway, facing out toward the library.

"Sebastian," she called as she slid off the table's edge to her feet, "could you give me a hand?"

He'd had enough experience undressing (and subsequently re-dressing) women's clothing to know what to do, and as she slid her arms through the bodice straps, he walked around to her back and took both sides in his hands.

He froze as he saw the back of her blouse. Four blood spots, pressed neatly into the cotton.

The last three minutes immediately made much more sense.

He chuckled as his fingers hooked the fastenings. "I fear that I may have just been used," he said, pulling the sash back over her shoulder.

She turned to smirk at him, patting his cheek patronizingly. "Think of it as a cooperative effort," she told him. "And a testament to how clever I am."

"That may not be the word I'd choose," he murmured, fully prepared for the light smack she gave him as she moved away to adjust her dress. She smoothed the feathers and adjusted the pin they were attached to before finally looking satisfied.

As they were walked back to the banquet, Sebastian caught the attention of the married guardsman. "Excuse me," he began slowly, "but I would appreciate your... discretion in this."

The guardsman laughed, glancing sidelong to the prince. "Got fifty silver?"

Sebastian blinked. _So little? _"Why?"

"Because," the man replied, "it's how much I lost in the bet with my wife."

Hawke snickered and handed him a full sovereign.

* * *

><p>The guardsmen excused themselves to continue the patrol after depositing the wayward guests back in the banquet hall.<p>

"We should let the Bann know what we found," Hawke said, finding him in the crowd easily. "But not too obviously, or someone might get a little suspicious."

"That implies that you've _done_ something suspicious, my dear Champion." She turned to see Zevran behind her, one eyebrow delicately arched as he smiled languidly. She smiled back, as innocently as she could manage.

"I have _no idea_ what you mean," she simpered. "I'm only here to wish the crown prince a happy name day and refrain from parting anyone from their teeth with my fist."

"A noble goal, to be sure." The elf's deft fingers caught hers, and he tugged firmly. "Excuse me," he said to Sebastian, "but allow me to steal your lovely companion for a dance. I've promised her at least one, you see."

The prince opened his mouth, but Zevran was already pulling her away. Hawke made sure to kiss Sebastian firmly on the cheek before allowing the blonde assassin to lead her to the dance floor.

As he tucked a well-practiced hand around her lower back, Zevran whirled her into a turn, pulling them into the line of dance. "Your _inamorata_ is quite popular," he told her, raising her other hand with his. "Though there are some who find his presence less novel than others."

"So I'd imagine."

"Of course. You would be a fool not to. And you, my friend, are no fool." His eyes glinted with his next words. "Which leads me to wonder more and more about your _charming_ princeling. When is the ceremony, so that I may storm it passionately and attempt to steal you from the altar?"

"No official date," she said casually, "but it will be sometime after he takes the crown, I suspect."

"A-_ha!_" He smirked, chasing her feet with his across the polished floor. "I had thought as much, you marvelously devious jewel."

"His plan. I'm just helping."

"If you insist." His tone implied that he wasn't entirely convinced, and Hawke couldn't blame him one bit. "Though I am not alone in my suspicions – tell me, have you met a fellow by the name of Loudain?"

Hawke groaned, and Zevran chuckled. "I see," he said. "Then you know of his horsemen?"

She blinked at that, frowning. "No. Horsemen?"

"It appears," he continued, lowering his voice somewhat, "that the Bann dispatched a quartet of units this very afternoon."

Smiling, Hawke patted his cheek affectionately. "Why _Zevran_," she purred, "have you been looking out for my bride for me?"

His lips twitched into a broad grin at the word 'bride,' and he shrugged nonchalantly. "I was looking into the man to begin with. He is apparently set against establishing Antivan trading routes, and I simply _happened_ to find a particularly chatty stablehand with the loveliest eyes this side of the river. He was more than eager to... discuss his duties over a bit of wine and fresh pile of hay. I thought it only chivalrous to inform you of my findings."

"_Hay,_" she snickered in disbelief. "You, Ser Silk and Satin Only?"

"Do not remind me," he sighed theatrically, his accent coloring even his petulant tone. "I was picking it out of my hair and trousers for some time."

"So," she said, "four units."

"Yes, though he did not know their orders. I tried to get it out of him, I swear to you. For_ hours_."

"I'll bet you did." She sighed a little. "Well, I think we know where they're going, but not _why._"

"Oh, do you?" He turned her under one arm, letting one hand get a bit too friendly as her backside passed by. "I assume you did not come by this information by... _befriending_ a member of his staff, as I did?"

Hawke grinned.

"Well," she began, "did you hear about how Loudain is living in the palace nowadays?"

* * *

><p>Sebastian watched them from the railings at the top of the stairs, more troubled by it than he'd like to admit. Hawke didn't think twice about taking the Antivan's hand. Right in front of him, no less. Watching them talk and laugh made every muscle in his body a bit tense, and the way the assassin danced with her struck a nerve.<p>

How could he touch her so easily?

The man was an unabashed flirt, that much was abundantly clear. But Sebastian also recognized a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface; men like Zevran never did anything without calculation. Yet there the elf was, casually twirling one of the most formidable women of the age around like it was the most comfortable thing in the world. Completely at ease. As was she.

Envy was a sin, Sebastian reminded himself. Even the Maker himself had had to watch his beloved Andraste with her human husband from afar during her mortal life.

Then again, Andraste hadn't been married to Zevran.

A loud, sharp laugh caught his attention, and he saw Hawke desperately trying to stifle her dance partner's delighted guffaws while fighting down laughter herself. The elf dabbed at his eyes, saying something that dissolved them both in mirth.

Sebastian's jaw clenched. Here he had worried that Hawke wouldn't have anyone here to talk to. Watching her now, he saw that his energy had obviously been utterly wasted.

Nowhere in the Chant did it say that being bitter was a sin against the Maker.

He took a deep, calming breath. His exhale came out as more of a sigh, and he shook his head. What in Andraste's name was he doing, watching Hawke like a petulant teenager? She was a grown woman, capable and with a purpose, simply taking a moment from her eventful night to dance with an old friend.

_Although, _he thought smugly, _said old friend wasn't the one with a hand up her skirts not twenty minutes ago._

The thought cheered him considerably, and he scanned the crowd with an absentminded pace. He'd greeted and conversed with old friends and familiar faces as well as each person that MacDougall had recommended. They would debrief in a few hours, after the banquet's end, and proceed with the knowledge he and Hawke had gleaned throughout the evening. Which, even if the rest of the event was largely uneventful, was more than they had expected.

A smile made its way across his face as he saw his future bride pull Aeryn onto the dance floor, Zevran bowing politely and making a comment that brought a smirk to his face and a groan from both women. The Antivan stood at the sidelines and watched as Hawke led the Bann's daughter through a promenade missing their cue entirely and having to dash for it in order to keep even. As they paused to catch their breath and laugh at one another, an interesting scene on the far side of the room pulled his attention away.

Marianne Sutherland and Cora Loudain sat with their mothers at one of the tables, having what appeared to be (granted, from a distance) cordial polite conversation. The former, the Bann's daughter, was exactly as he remembered her: plain, thin, and nearly as tall as her father. Seeing her next to Marianne's natural beauty caused Sebastian to wonder how, if by some other means than her father's machinations, Cora had even made it this far in her bid for the princess' title.

He also wondered if she herself had any interest in marrying his cousin or if she, like so many other daughters present that night, was simply subject to her parents' insistence and innocent of the goings-on that surrounded her.

As she spoke, she reached into her bag and produced a powder tin, removing the puff and dabbing her face and neck delicately. With a few more gestures, Sebastian understood the gist of the conversation. Comparing cosmetics was yet another way to judge the measure of a highborn woman, from the distance they'd been imported to the cost and color. They were doing exactly what he had suspected: competing, albeit in a very subtle way.

Cora held the tin and puff in front of her, miming dabbing motions in what appeared to be an offer to share with Marianne, a rather loaded proposition. To her credit, Marianne chose wisely and pulled her hair away from her face, leaning forward graciously. Cora lifted the powder, patting it a few times with the puff...

...and then sneezed delicately across the tin, plastering its contents across Marianne's face.

Sebastian would have thought it an honest accident if he hadn't seen the flicker of a smirk across Cora's waxy face.

_Innocent, Andraste's perfect arse,_ he mused. At least that answered one question.

Marianne stood, wiping her eyes and waving off Cora's melodramatic apologies and feigned mortification. She blindly reached around for a napkin, instead sending a wineglass tumbling down the other girl's dress. Cora shrieked, startling Marianne into stumbling backward.

Trouble was, Goran had come over to greet them and stood directly behind the chairs. As he attempted to catch the visionless girl, his hands caught her waist and (quite unfortunately and unintentionally) the side of one breast, and she rounded him on quickly with an indignant shout.

And slapped him soundly across the face, knocking the royal circlet clear to the ground.

Sebastian winced in sympathy, as did many of the men watching the spectacle. It was both for his cousin's face and the enormity of what she had just done.

The area surrounding them fell silent, and as Marianne angrily wiped her eyes with her sleeve, she looked to see the man who had groped her – only to gape in horror. Her hands flew to her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes as she stammered desperate apologies, Cora silently picking up the crown and wiping it with her skirts.

As the mortified girl fled in tears, followed quickly by her mother, Loudain's daughter handed the crown back to Goran, who awkwardly replaced it with what seemed like an eternity of adjustments.

And in one of the oldest moves in the book, she started dabbing at the wine over her meager cleavage delicately. The prince's eyes, naturally, were pinned like arrows to the neckline of her gown, and Cora had herself a captive audience, Marianne entirely forgotten.

_Goran,_ Sebastian cursed, _you simpleton._

Hawke looked up at the archer over the crowd, and their eyes met. He nodded at her solemn expression, knowing that she'd come to the same realization he had.

_That settles it,_ he thought as he leaned against the balcony. Cora Loudain had officially eliminated the last of her rivals. Nothing stood between her and the prince (and the crown) now. Except for Sebastian, of course, which he had a strong feeling her father knew.

And the rightful prince could take a good deal more than a slap to the face, he thought as he watched Bann Loudain lean down to whisper in Goran's ear.


	11. On Being Helpful

**A/N:** I'M WRITING AGAIN WOO We'll see how long this lasts. =P I think that gainful employment has been a huge help in getting me motivated to do... well, _anything_ again.

Since I last updated, there's been an adorable addition to the story's art! A pair of super cute Sebastian/Hawke chibis by fuckyeahvarric on tumblr. bit_ly/JmRnU3 (Replace the underscore with a period. FFnet apparently hates links.)

Yes, she's in a kilt. DEAL WITH IT, SEBASTIAN. DEAL.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Ah! To your left!"<p>

An arrow sank into the ground as a brown-and-white hare darted into the brambles, narrowly avoiding a pointy demise.

"Damnit," Lord Lesley muttered. "Quick little ball of fluff, isn't he?"

Sebastian agreed, pulling his arrow out of the grass, shaking loose clumps of dirt that came with it. Bruce Lesley was a good friend of his late elder brother, the former crown prince. The hunting trip had been his idea, and their two companions were nobles he held a close kinship with in court.

Lord Edgar MacLendon hailed from the main city, and was the eldest of the group. He had a red beard to rival Bann MacDougall's, but was far less physically intimidating. Known for his ties to Starkhaven's northern neighbor, including an Antivan wife, he was often called in to consult on diplomatic conflicts.

Cedric Russell, though the first son of Bann Russell of Lea (the region directly east of the city proper), was more well known for his position as the commander of the Royal Archers. The youngest man to achieve that rank since their inception, his white-blond locks and lack of facial hair made him look even more youthful. His skills were formidable, though, and Sebastian was more than happy to have him along.

Their host, Lesley, was a notorious moderate, and frequently the target of ire in heated debates because of his famous even temperament. The cool veneer, the prince suspected, was a product of having such a volatile young wife, who herself had been the one to put them up to their current task.

"No wonder the accursed rodents have become such a pest," he mused, whistling for his dogs to rush into the bushes and flush out any burrows.

Sebastian eyed the large wicker basket that one attendant carried, which already held at least a dozen carcasses. "Well," he said, "at least Hawke will be pleased for some time. She especially loves the way I prepare rabbit."

MacLendon chuckled, stroking the large falcon on his forearm and shaking his head. "Sebastian," he told the prince, "you are _whipped_, boy."

"I am?" Gesturing to Lesley, Sebastian smiled. "So what of the man who leaps to form an extermination squad when his wife complains that rabbits have gotten into the gardens?"

"Not whipped," Lesley corrected him, "_smart._ You'll learn the difference when you marry."

"Speaking of which," the blonde commander interrupted as he refilled his quiver, "does your lady shoot?"

"Never held a bow in her life." He had once offered to teach her, but she refused. "Adamantly prefers steel and magic, I'm afraid."

The others exchanged pointed glances.

"I hadn't heard that the Champion was a mage," Russell said calmly, clearing his throat.

"Ah!" Sebastian waved a hand. "Hawke is no mage – she has augmented lyrium in her daggers. And an expert rune enchanter on retainer."

Their relief was palpable, and the dogs' baying alerted them to an incoming drive.

"Heads up, lads!" Lesley called, whistling as the archers drew their bows and MacLendon readied his bird.

Sure enough, the spotted hounds chased near five or six plump rabbits from the underbrush, snapping and barking even as dirt and debris were kicked into their faces.

Sebastian immediately loosed three shots in quick succession after a brown hare zigzagging across the meadow. The last of them connected with the hip, and he quickly sent a fourth arrow to end the animal's suffering, whispering a short prayer as he turned to the next target, taking care to avoid the dogs. Well-trained as they were, they were also momentarily tangles of fur and adrenaline in the face of prey. The red-and-white setter chased one of the rodents straight toward him, and the archer hit his mark dead on as he passed.

He spun, crouched and ready, but the lack of movement stilled his hand. "Is that the lot?" he asked, lowering his bow.

"Almost," Cedric replied, aiming out across the open grass at a flash of white against the weeds. "I've two already, but there's one a ways out."

MacLendon waved him down. "Hold your fire," he warned, "Lyra's got him in her sights."

They watched as the bird circled overhead, achieving her perfect pitch before stooping at her lop-eared quarry. A flurry of feathers and talons later, she returned obediently to her master's glove, and he rewarded her with a chunk of meat from his pouch before depositing her kill in the basket. She wiped her beak on his sleeve affectionately, MacLendon not seeming to mind the bloody smear at all.

"Come," Bruce said, patting his legs to call his dogs to heel. "My men reported warrens found on the south end of the fields."

The four began walking at a leisurely pace, Sebastian hooking the bow across his back and keeping astride their host as their attendants collected the felled pests.

"So tell me, Vael," his companion began casually, "why do you wish to rule?"

_That _caught the archer by surprise, and he chuckled a bit as his heart rate returned to normal. "You spare nothing," he marveled, "do you?"

Lord Lesley smirked as he scratched one of his dogs behind a pair of wavy-furred ears. "I believe in speaking frankly and clearly. If a man can't articulate his reasons without clouding them in fancy terms, I have no reason to listen to his nonsense."

Sebastian nodded. "And I appreciate your brevity. I will do my best to return it in kind." He clasped his hands behind his back, looking up at the sunlight as it filtered through the branches overhead.

"I have no confidence in Goran as a ruler," he started, "especially when his ascension to the throne was engineered by the same conniving woman who slaughtered my family like beasts. I also am aware of past and present plots on my own life, and while I do not expect them to cease when I become prince, I likewise do not have any intention of surrendering."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "This is about revenge, then?"

"No," Sebastian replied firmly, "my time in the Chantry, and subsequently with the Champion, have shown me that revenge is a fruitless path that leaves a man less of what he was and cannot bring back what was lost." He turned to make eye contact, sincere. "I do this for Starkhaven and her people."

"And in order to do that, you are prepared to abandon your faith?"

The prince paused thoughtfully. "I did not abandon my faith," he said. "I fully intend to rule with the Maker guiding my path, bringing His light to the people." Flashes of his ministry in Kirkwall, at the slums and darktown, tugged at his chest. "I will admit to questioning my way frequently in Kirkwall," he told the nobleman, "and wondering how something so small and insignificant as a single life could change the fortunes of so many. The destitute, the starving, the widowed – there was an endless flood of despair that will never leave my memory. I felt helpless and held devastating doubts." He gestured with his hands as he spoke. "As one brother, I could do so little, but as a _ruler_, there is much good to be done! The Blight left many struggling."

"Noble," Bruce said appreciatively, scratching the side of his face. "It truly is, make no mistake. However, that alone –"

"The scale of destruction in Ferelden has also left a power vacuum," Sebastian interrupted. "They work to resolve problems within their own borders and lack a strong voice among Thedas' central nations."

Surprise evident across his face, the dark-haired man nodded. "And here we come to what I was about to ask! Please, continue."

At his words, it was as though a locked gate within the archer had burst open, like the state of mind and presence of a prince that he had buried over the years had been dug up and shaken loose. "To begin with," he started, "many of the Ferelden refugees are skilled craftsmen and knowledgeable in techniques that could prove useful, especially given the lack of experienced tradesmen in the outer Starkhaven territories. They are confined to poverty in Kirkwall – incentives to travel would likely prove invaluable to increasing our own artisan populations and strengthen the border settlements and villages."

"How did you know about–"

"It has always been an issue," Sebastian explained. "Our borders expand faster than we can successfully manage. We're nearly at Tantervale's doors, which I feel we can utilize. Should we bring Tantervale into the Starkhaven bannorn, we would have the resources for a mounted army to protect the more fragile parts of our expansion as our people move southward. I would also reinstate the royal archers to their previous status and priority, as I have seen very little in the way of defenses throughout my visit." He adjusted the straps on one of his gloves as he considered his next words. "Our position on the river lends itself well to trade, which has been less of a focus in the last few years, has it not? As we are now, we could easily displace Kirkwall as a central port, or at least compete on equal footing. On that same border, I firmly believe in strengthening Starkhaven's ties with Antiva, as supply from Ferelden is already strained and there is evidence that Orlais will soon become equally unreliable in its exports."

MacLendon caught up to them at that. "My wife will be happy to hear that, not a doubt," he interjected, "but what evidence do you refer to?"

"There have been reports that there are a fair number of Orlesians actively fueling tensions with Ferelden," the prince told him, "and while not a certainty, Starkhaven's dependency on Orlesian goods would leave us crippled in the event of a war. Antiva's strong merchant veins are worth investing in, should it come to that."

Laughing, Bruce clapped him on the back – something he'd done to Sebastian often as a child. "Well done," he called, beaming at him, "especially for a scrawny whelp! I'll admit to underestimating you, Vael, but you can't say you'd blame me."

"Indeed," MacLendon agreed, "you've really thought this through, it seems. The change in you is... quite something."

"Time away has given me the perspective to see my home from an outsider's point of view," he said slowly, "especially the flaws. Our lands should be self-sufficient, well-guarded, and as strong in character as they have ever been." He smiled at the two married men in his midst, remembering Hawke's words to him the night the Bann had announced their engagement.

"I swore to my future bride that I would make Starkhaven safe for our family," he said warmly, "and I will keep that first and foremost in my heart."

"Ah, the lady Champion." MacLendon smirked, adjusting the hood on his bird's head. "A fine asset, to you and our lands. You've done well to bring her here, but can you keep her?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Come now, man!" Bruce crossed his arms. "You were never a one-woman boy. Do you mean to say that you've miraculously lost your taste for it?"

Sebastian smirked at their disbelief, rather enjoying it now. "Actually," he began casually, "I've kept chaste since taking my vows some years ago." At their protests ("Maker, _why_?" "No wonder you've had such free time to ponder ruling!"), he laughed.

"In addition, I believe you all met my betrothed last night at the banquet?" He bit back another broad smile as warmth spread through his fingers. "I don't think I could touch another woman for the rest of my life."

The smug looks on their faces told him everything.

"Poor sod," Bruce said, shaking his head as he sent his dogs to the next set of warrens.

"_Whipped_," added MacLendon, and a flash of blonde passed them as Russell jogged by.

"I agree," he chimed in as he followed the dogs, "and _I'm_ not even yet married."

Sebastian sighed, keeping apace. "Besides," he continued, "she's slain a dragon. Can you imagine what would befall me if I ever strayed?"

"That's good then," nodded Bruce. "A good, strong woman to support you – and keep you in line."

"Aye; Bann MacDougall says the same."

"He's a smart man," his brother's friend concurred, "which is why I agreed to this meeting. It seems Guinn doesn't disappoint. Truth be told..." He whistled, and one of the retrievers came back to his feet. "That in itself'd have been enough to throw in with you, his support."

Sebastian should have been surprised, he supposed, but he'd apparently underestimated the Bann's influence. "Then why meet with me at all?"

"Wanted to see what kind of man you'd become," Bruce replied flatly, turning and extending his hand. "And I'm more than satisfied."

The prince clasped his wrist enthusiastically, about to speak when he was interrupted by the baying of hounds readying another flush of hares.

Lord Lesley sighed, and Sebastian drew his bow.

"Get used to this, lad," he said as they ran up ahead. "I can only imagine what your lady wife can dream up to torture you with."

Recalling the incident in the bath and her outburst during the one dance, Sebastian couldn't help but chuckle. "That may be so," he smirked, "but no good Starkhaven man worth his salt wouldn't give as good as he got."

"Good man!" MacLendon laughed, releasing his falcon. "We'll see how long that attitude lasts!"

* * *

><p>The thousands of triangular pennants hanging in the streets fluttered like a kaleidescope against the walls and roofs of the market district. The festival celebrating Goran's nameday would continue until the day itself at the end of the week, culminating in an appearance by the man himself. Until then, the streets were crowded, noisy and absolutely <em>wonderful.<em>

Sebastian inhaled deeply, the smell of various food stalls heavy in the air. Meats and cream-filled cakes were everywhere, and there was music playing someplace nearby, drowned out by the voices of the crowd and loud calls of vendors.

He browsed through the racks and racks of wares, the bearlike Bann close beside him. As he stopped to peruse a collection of carved wooden hairpins, MacDougall snorted.

"Feeling a need t' be pretty today, lad?"

Sebastian smiled at him over one shoulder. "I do make an effort."

An assortment at the back caught his eye, all polished walnut with feathers dangling on delicate gold chains from their heads. "Hawke has an affinity for feathers," he explained, rolling one between his fingers, "and she should start building her collection of finery now."

The Bann frowned. "Hasn't she got a set already?"

Raising one eyebrow, Sebastian tried not to laugh. "_Hawke_, finery? Andraste's mercy, no!" He crossed his arms and smiled. "She has armor enough to fill a barn, surely, but I think she owns all of _two _gowns, and it's the hand of the Maker himself if they aren't in tatters or covered in blood by now."

"Right." MacDougall scratched his beard thoughtfully. "When Beatrice moved into th' keep after th' wedding, she came with trunks enough t' fill a room. I just figured..." He sighed. "Agh. Th' Champion'll take some work, won't she?"

"Aye," the prince said as he dropped a few coins into the artist's hand and slid the ornament into his hip pouch. "Though she will do well. I've no doubt that the people of Starkhaven will adore their princess."

"She does have a way with people," the Bann admitted, "she even won Cendre over, and that's no easy feat. But princess-ly things, like th' dressing and th' history of th' city and th' names and faces, that sort of business." He shot the younger man a meaningful look. "Your lady's got a world of an undertaking ahead. Ye do understand this, don't ye?"

Sebastian straightened, glancing at the Bann warily. What was he getting at? "Of course."

"Good." Seemingly satisfied, the taller man turned his attention to a stall boasting an impressive plethora of decorative daggers. "She's a good woman, that Hawke. Going through all this for your sake – thank th' Maker next ye pray that she loves ye, lad."

_Ah._

It was like something had taken hold of opposite ends of Sebastian's stomach and twisted it tightly. _How does an honest man respond to such a statement_, he wondered as he flexed his fingers, _when he knows it to be untrue?_

"One can only hope," he said, hoping to sound nonchalant as he admired a skein of wool. An enormous hand catching his wrist firmly, however, proved the Bann unconvinced. Sebastian turned to see a troubled look across MacDougall's face.

"Those," he told the prince meaningfully, "are _not_ th' words of a confident man."

A weary smile made its way across Sebastian's lips as he laid a hand across the Bann's reassuringly. "Do not mistake me, my friend." The Bann released him, and the archer began walking again, the rhythm of his feet against the cobblestone helping to bring the words forth calmly. "Hawke and I have a great deal of respect for one another. We each have our own reasons for agreeing to the betrothal, and the Champion of Kirkwall and the Prince of Starkhaven is a strong alliance. You needn't worry."

The Bann frowned as he followed. "Aye," he agreed, "respect is important in a marriage, but..." He clapped a hand down on the prince's shoulder sympathetically. "Can ye _live_ with just that?"

One squeeze of the giant's plate-sized palm, and Sebastian knew that the Bann of Shallervale understood far more than he had given him credit for.

"Greed is a sin," he said carefully, "and I already have more than I deserve."

After a moment, the Bann vigorously ruffled Sebastian's hair. "Ye may be even better suited t' th' crown than I thought," he told him firmly. "Ye've made the first hard decision that's best for th' people."

The prince chuckled as the familiar sensation rippled through his scalp just the same as it had when he was a boy. "Though I would release her from it, should she ask it of me."

"Ye'd better not!" The man's playful shove nearly sent Sebastian flying into a nearby vendor. "Love comes with time! Be _patient_, lad. Ye think me and th' wife got along when we first wed?" He ran a hand through his beard, nose wrinkled as though he'd smelled something unpleasant. "Were like mountain lions fighting over th' same cave. Never could keep track of how many dishes we broke and guests we scared off." He paused. "Though that might've been th' first stirrings of passion. Can never tell with that woman."

"Hawke also has a Starhaven woman's arm with plates." The prince sighed. "We'd do well to keep them happy, or else there won't be enough potters in all of the Free Marches to save us."

"Reminds me," MacDougall grumbled, "Cendre said she wanted a pin in th' babe's birthstone. There's a jeweler at th' end of th' street there we can have a look at."

The archer's eyes briefly caught on a handsome pair of doeskin archery gloves fitted for a woman, wondering if he should pick something out for Hawke as a gift for not throwing a single punch the previous night, a near-miraculous feat for the Champion. He eyed the stalls as they passed, racks full of fabric and weapons and imported goods that reeked of perfumed incense and scented oils. Nothing in particular struck him, though he was hit with a sudden sense of energized longing, as though he wanted nothing more than to bring Hawke here at this very moment and show her the wonder of the place she would soon call home.

There would be celebrations like this yet to come in their lives together, he thought as he stopped a moment to take in the sights and sounds around him. For his coronation, for their wedding, the births of their children. If he ever had cause for joy, he would share it with his people.

The city would be bustling and vibrant again many times over, if he had any hand in it.

He jogged to catch up to MacDougall, who had already found the massive jeweler's stall. Admiring the walls that held glittering adornments and other trinkets, he nodded appreciatively. "This is quality workmanship."

"Many thanks, my lord," called the silversmith, who held out a collection of pieces with bright blue gems for the Bann to inspect. "All made right here in Starkhaven, gems straight from Orzammar."

Squinting, MacDougall held a brooch up into the light to inspect it. "Ye can engrave these, then?"

"Yes, my lord. Anything with a sealed setting."

The Bann grunted an understanding as he considered two pieces, finally indicating a wreath of tulips surrounding a sovereign-sized stone. "This one. And on the back, ah..." He frowned, scratching his nose. "Sod it. Write: 'For th' babe. Learn t' dodge. From Grandda Guinn.'"

Sebastian chuckled, pretending to be engrossed in a set of necklaces.

"Go on and laugh," the Bann snorted. "Best advice I never got."

"I don't doubt it." Sebastian's eyes traveled downward, where brightly-colored silk ribbons joined pairs of rings together as they hung daintily on pins.

_Wedding bands_, he realized as he leaned down to get a closer look. All designed to interlock in some small, delicate way.

"What," the Bann asked, incredulous, "ye haven't got a pair yet?"

The prince smirked, resisting the urge to inform his friend that the engagement had only been decided upon _after_ he'd announced it to a room full of his countrymen.

"I haven't had the time," he answered. It was the truth, anyway. His blue eyes glinted as he smiled up at the Bann. "You think I should, then?"

The bear-man's response was an exasperated glare.

Sebastian tried not to smile as he made his selection and wrote the inscription for the smith. "Please send these along with the brooch," he told the shopkeeper, "to Bann MacDougall's man – oomph!"

He stumbled sideways mid-sentence as something solid connected with his left leg. As he regained his balance, he felt strange vibration and a dull pressure through the leather of his pants. He looked down, only to see a young boy of no more than five with a pair of miniature clay horns tied around his head and his arms wrapped around the prince's knee.

And he was chewing on him.

And growling.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, looking to the Bann, who seemed far too entertained to be of any use. _Well,_ he thought, _he doesn't look blighted, so there's no danger of that._

"Hello there," he called down, his thick accent rolling over the syllables and betraying his amusement.

"H'lo," came the reply, muffled by a mouthful of leather-clad thigh.

"Can I ask the name of the young lad trying to eat me?"

"I'm not a lad," the boy said, finally pulling his mouth away but not relinquishing his hold around the knee. "I'm a wyvern."

"Are you, now?" He tilted his head as the large eyes of a child blinked up at him. "Tell me then, wee beastie, where's your mother?"

"Home," was the simple declaration. "I'm out hunting."

"Hunting? Are you hungry?"

The boy nodded, dragging the back of one hand across his mouth.

After looking around a moment, Sebastian leaned down and pointed to a cart selling meat-stuffed bread rolls.

"I'll make a trade with you, then. My leg for two of those buns."

That did the trick. Just as his knee sighed in relief at the lack of crushing pressure, the prince was met with a pair of arms thrust up at him as the boy anticipated being picked up. And though he hesitated at first, it only took moments for Sebastian to smile and scoop the boy up onto his hip as he walked.

Rolls in hand, the nameless boy wolfed the first bun down, taking his time on the second, all the while enjoying his high vantage point.

"You haven't told us your name, wyvern," Sebastian pointed out as he adjusted his arms and navigated the crowd.

"You haven't said yours either."

The Bann shrugged. "Lad's got a point."

"My name is Sebastian Vael," he said, holding tight to the boy as he gave a deep mock bow. Squealing, the child clung to him with his free hand and giggled like a madman. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Wyverns don't have names," the boy announced. "Is this a real bow?"

"Yes, it – "

"Do you know how to use it?"

"I was trained with the Royal Archers when – "

"Does that mean you're good? Da said that the Royal Archers can shoot snow from the sky!"

_Five minutes with this child and I'm already exhausted_, Sebastian thought as he ignored the Bann's snicker. _Maker help me when my own come._

"I've not tried," he said thoughtfully, "but the next snowfall, I will. I promise you."

As they came to the main square, the Bann thumbed toward a panicked-looking woman frantically scanning the crowd from atop the base of the sculpture.

"I'd say that's our mother wyvern," he said. They made their way over, and the Bann reached up to tap her on the shoulder. "This one yours?" he asked, gesturing to the squirming mass of limbs crawling over the other man's shoulder in an attempt to reach his quiver.

The look of relief on her face as MacDougall helped her down was all the answer he needed. "Lucas," she called, "thank the Maker you're safe."

"And very energetic," the prince added, now holding the boy upside-down by his ankles. Lucas giggled and swung his arms wildly as he was gently lowered to the ground, then tightly grabbed by his mother.

"You gave me such a fright!" She looked him all over, checking for scratches or cuts. "I thought for sure they'd taken you. They never give second notices."

Sebastian was about to ask what she meant by that when she abruptly turned to them, offering a weak smile.

"I'm glad that folk such as you found him," she sighed, facing her son. "Say a proper thanks to the nice men."

Groaning, the boy swung around and nodded. "Thank you, Ser Bear-face. Thank you, Ser Vael."

"Bear-face," MacDougall muttered and shook his head as the woman immediately snapped her head to the prince, eyes wide.

"Vael?"

"This is Sebastian," the boy explained excitedly. "He's a Royal Archer, like Da was."

Her free hand flew to her face, realization bringing alarm. "Maker," she whispered. "_Prince_ Sebastian. I–"

Sebastian held up a hand to cut her off, smiling warmly. "Your son's a good lad. I'm sure he'll tell you all about his adventure." He leaned down, hands on his knees as he told the boy: "Though I'd leave out the part where you bit me, were I you."

This seemed to ease her panic somewhat, and she managed a quick curtsey and "thank you so very much, my lord" before hurrying off with her son in tow. As they watched her go, Sebastian frowned.

"Who, exactly, doesn't give second notices?"

The Bann frowned, crossing his arms. "Shady element around here's gotten a lot stronger since Goran was put in place. Everyone's so focused on solidifying th' crown they've forgotten about th' people." He nodded in the direction she ran. "Lot of loans from bad places, collect what they can from folk when they don't come through. Lot of th' children don't come back. Shop owners getting run out of their stores if they don't pay th' local thugs, burglaries, muggings, all of that. Shot straight up th' instant th' people in charge stopped looking their way. Or started helping them for a cut of th' profits."

Something inside of the prince went cold as MacDougall explained the result of the nobles' neglect and the city's subsequent corruption. Even now, they spent their time jockeying for power in the presence of a weak claim and a puppet whose only purpose was to sit there and _watch_. Meanwhile, the people outside suffered and lived with fear and doubt in what should have been one of the safest cities in Thedas.

This was the _Maker's_ land, founded under His sight for the sake of peace and order. For the rulers of such a place to overlook the lives of those they were meant to protect was unacceptable.

"Guinn," he asked solemnly, "Can one man truly do something to change all this?"

"Aye," the Bann answered, "th' right man could."

"And do you believe that I am that man?"

He turned to him, completely earnest, and MacDougall met his eyes firmly. "I think ye were meant to try," he replied, "and that's why ye're not alone."

* * *

><p>Sebastian wanted to see Hawke.<p>

He looked out the window of his - or rather, _their_ room - in the Bann's estate, noting the rise of the moon in the night sky. She hadn't been at dinner, which finished hours ago. And as he sat and waited, he wondered when it was that seeing her face and hearing her voice had become so important to him that he became anxious without it. What had changed, he mused, that her presence could bring him such peace? He had always been happy to see his friend, even when she was merely ducking into the Chantry to hide and pulled him along for company.

Less than two weeks ago, though, she had promised to support him in his efforts to take the crown and continue to be that support as both princess and wife.

That in itself sounded like the first of the wedding vows, he thought as he looked down at the grounds, which still held no sign of her. His feet had grown restless, and reading brought him no solace. After a few failed attempts to leaf through historical novels or poetry collections, Sebastian fell back to the one thing he could always count on to clear his mind. As he sat in front of the fire and began to polish the first piece of armor, his resolution strengthened.

He wanted to see her. And if that meant staying up until the sun rose, so be it.

An hour passed, and he'd moved onto his belt buckle, scouring the delicate grooves of the sculpted face when the sound of footsteps approaching caught his attention. Sure enough, the door gently creaked open, then casually shut behind her as Hawke saw that he was awake. "You're still up," she noted, hanging her cloak by the door and standing near him by the fire. He could feel the waves of cold as she shook the chill from her skin, warming her palms with the flames before moving to unbuckle her armor. "How was the hunt this morning?"

The prince bit his tongue as the urge to ask where she'd been angrily charged toward his mouth. Instead, he put aside his armor and motioned for her to come closer, helping her with her hip guards and boots from his cross-legged position on the floor. "It went well," he answered. "I've now the support of all three men, and Lesley's wife's gardens should have no further infestations for near a season."

She sat in front of him on the rug, leaning back on her palms as he tugged one of her boots free and laid it aside. He'd started on the laces of the second when he felt her gaze and looked up to see her beaming warmly at him as he worked. He couldn't fight the smile that surfaced in response, and after freeing the second foot, he held it in his hand and squeezed it a little.

"What are you smiling about, Hawke?"

She just shook her head, coming up off her hands and leaning toward him between her thighs. "Come here."

He had only to close the distance between them a little when her hands found their way to his neck, guiding him in for a warm, gentle meeting of the mouths. This one felt more natural, more affectionate then their others, and Sebastian ran his thumb in lazy circles over the heel he still held captive as he enjoyed the warmth of her lips.

It was some time before Hawke pulled back, biting her bottom lip and still smiling. "I just had the sudden urge to do that," she chuckled, "and it occurred to me that I actually _could_."

His chest felt like it might burst, as his heart didn't seem to know what to do with itself at the sudden change other than liquefy into a contented puddle. He was about to reach for her to pull her back in when a quick swipe of his tongue across his lips brought the aftertaste of wine to his mouth. In just an instant, his anxiety had returned and his body had tightened.

This wasn't cheap tavern wine. She'd been drinking with someone.

Clearing his throat, he released her foot. "We missed you at dinner."

She spun on her backside then, positioning her soles toward the fire to warm them up. "I dined with Zevran. You remember, the Antivan elf from the banquet."

And _there_ went the last vestiges of comfort. _Yes,_ he thought bitterly. _I remember him._

"It was nice to see him again," she continued. "We ended up talking."

He tried to keep the ice from his voice. "Until so late?"

She smiled, laying back and stretching. "We each had a lot of stories to share. I told you that he knew Cadhla, right?"

"Aye, your friend from Ferelden."

Nodding, Hawke turned to him. "Zevran was one of the ones who helped her end the Blight those years ago. The things he's seen and done at her side are unimaginable."

"The blight?" He narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment, and as the pieces snapped into place, his stomach lurched and he felt as though the world had fallen out from beneath him.

"Your Cadhla," he managed, "Was the Grey Warden who _ended the fifth blight_?"

Hawke waved one arm above her grandly. "One and the same, though I knew her as Cousland when we were in Highever. It's Theirin now, but I still address letters to her maiden name and they seem to get through just fine." Laughing, she covered her eyes with her hands. "Oh, does he have some stories about her!"

Sebastian suddenly found himself a bit dizzy. "You grew up with the Queen of Ferelden."

She snickered. "Zevran was _very_ entertained to hear that we used to practice kissing over the summers I stayed in Highever. Can't wait to bring it up when I write her next."

"You still exchange letters, then?"

"Constantly. She says Alistair should be in Kirkwall soon."

The prince stared, unsure of what to do with the information that his future wife was intimate friends with the Ferelden royal family. Yet another connection that Hawke had, one more rope in the suspension bridge that was proving to be his path to the throne.

His faith led him to believe in miracles. It also taught him to accept certain confluences of events as merely circumstance, while others were the divine hand at work.

There was no way in Thedas or in any other realm that Hawke was the former, Sebastian decided as he stared at her. It simply couldn't be possible.

Hawke made a face at him, sitting up and snickering. "What? You look so serious all of a sudden."

Moving closer, he sat with his back to the fire to face her, smiling from the part of him that only felt whole when he lifted his thoughts in prayer.

"I wonder," he started, pulling her hair out of her face, "if the Maker hasn't sent you to me."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, but turned to nip at his palm all the same. "If the Maker sent me to Kirkwall, he and I need to have words. Also, he can turn himself into a dragon."

Chuckling, he reached behind him to pinch one of her toes, eliciting a laughing yelp from the Champion.

"Ridicule me all you like," he said, leaning against her, "but I cannot help but think that this is a signal that I was meant to walk this path and you were meant to walk it with me."

Her expression faltered, then, and she studied his face intently with something in her eyes that he couldn't quite catch. Her shoulders soon gradually eased back from tension, and an unsteady grin made its way onto her face.

"Well, then," she said, laughing nervously, "I should thank the Maker that he at least made my partner in all this nice to look at."

She turned toward him, and Sebastian got the distinct feeling that she was about to kiss him again when the delicate clinking of glass against the stone floor caught their attention. A small vial rolled around on the floor beside her, and the prince reached over to pick it up.

"Yours?" he asked, holding it up to the firelight.

"I don't recognize it," she said, squinting. "Though it probably did come from my pocket. Zevran has a habit of sneaking things into my clothes for me to find later." She watched as he uncorked it, frowning a little. "I'd be careful if I were you – I wouldn't exactly trust his 'gifts.'"

Sebastian continued anyway, as there was something very familiar about the size and shape of the bottle. One whiff told him everything he needed, and a knowing smile crossed his face.

He never thought he'd actually be _thankful_ for the Antivan's blatant insinuations.

"Oil?" Hawke asked, seeing the golden-yellow fluid slide around thickly in its confines and leave a sheen in its path. "What for, coating blades?"

Still smirking, the archer shook his head. "I saw these often in Antiva." Pressing one finger over the mouth of the vial, he quickly tilted it back and forth, leaving a slick circle on his fingertip. The other hand sought hers and turned it palm-up in front of him, his blue eyes glittering wickedly as he slowly ran the coated fingertip from her middle finger to wrist.

And waited.

Soon, the trademark jolt of tingling heat blossomed in his fingertip, and he saw Hawke shudder as he knew the same pulsed through her hand.

"No, Hawke," he replied to her earlier question. "It is _not_ for blades."

As the electric warmth faded on his skin, he raised her palm to his mouth and ran his tongue slowly over the path that the oil had taken, hot sparks in its wake. He met her eyes as his mouth found the junction of her ring and middle fingers, and he swallowed hard.

The look on her face and the intensity of her gaze very nearly broke him. In retrospect, the oil had been a very, _very_ bad idea, though he hadn't been thinking at all. And he knew that the Champion couldn't be cursing his vows any more than he was at that moment.

Her other hand slid around his waist, and as her fingers curled up the hem of his shirt to seek the skin underneath, he stilled and caught her hand.

"Touch me, Hawke, and I will come undone." His eyes pleaded with her, though his body was screaming the opposite. "Please. I am not a strong enough man to resist you, and I wish to remain honorable in the Maker's sight."

She sighed and leaned back against the foot of the bed, letting her head hit the wooden frame before standing and changing behind the partition.

"I'm going to bed," she declared as she pulled back the covers, "and cooling off. But the second we're married – the very _second,_ you understand –" With a pointed glare, she plunked herself down on the mattress. "You're making up for this, you hear me?"

_Oh, Maker._ Sebastian was in trouble.

He prayed for a full hour before joining her wearily beneath the sheets.


	12. Be Careful What You Wish For

**A/N:** Been a while!

Life's been crazy, with the new job and the busy, busy life. But rest assured; I'm still writing.

Albeit at a much slower pace. =)

Also, I've been made aware that some of FFnet's recent site changes and sudden policy enforcement have prompted some people to move over to Archive of Our Own. If that's your preference, I'm over there as well, under the same moniker!

But for now, enjoy some more Zevran badassery and benevolence.

* * *

><p>Hawke's feet pounded against the cobblestones hard as she rounded the corner sharply, two companions in tow.<p>

"'Come to the Market,' you said," she called back. "'Try some traditional Starkhaven confections,' you said!"

"Less yelling," the Bann huffed, "more running. Left at th' next turn!"

She did as she was told, grumbling, and they ducked into an awning-covered backstreet. They took a moment to rest under the butter yellow- and purple-striped tarp, breathing heavily.

Hawke sighed, roughly wiping the newly-formed beads of sweat on her forehead. The three of them – MacDougall, Sebastian, and herself – had taken the late morning to wander around and enjoy the festivities before the strategy meeting that evening. Hawke had wanted to rest, but her stupid fiancé and his stupid face like the stupid sun had convinced her to go out in search of whatever pastry was making the delicious smell that was wafting up to their window.

They hadn't been in the market longer than an hour before she picked up that they were being followed - and then subsequently ambushed, sending the three scurrying into the labyrinthine alleyways of the back quarter.

_Maker_, she thought as she rolled her shoulders and neck in anticipation, _feels like Tuesdays in Kirkwall._

Sebastian craned his neck around one of the awning's poles. "Have we lost them?"

Hawke held up a hand to call for silence, hearing muffled voices scattering around them. "No. They're weaving through, but not spreading out. Smart not to split up, but it gives us a little time."

"Do we find them first, then?" The Bann frowned, reaching for the hand-axes at his hips. "Head back t' where we saw th' bastards last?"

"Can't." She bent over, hands on her knees as she thought for a moment. "That takes us back to the streets, and we can't let the people see the prince shedding blood." Her head lifted and she caught said prince's eyes solemnly. "I don't think we can get out of this one without leaving a body count. Sorry, Sebastian."

He gave a short nod, jaw tight as he unhooked his bow. "I understand. Do what you must."

She smiled wryly to herself as she stood straight, running her fingers over her belt and pockets to take silent inventory of her resources. That Sebastian had agreed so quickly and with so little fuss was a reassurance; the willingness to take life was unfortunate, but absolutely crucial in a leader.

Especially one throwing a coup.

"They're getting closer," she said, stretching to pull the adrenaline out into her limbs more evenly. "And they're still in a big group, which means that taking them head-on is a fool's mission. I'm the fastest on my feet and practiced at being irritating. So let me draw them off. You two know the city well enough to circle around and pick them off from the back and side?"

"Th' streets aren't changed much," the Bann said to Sebastian, thumbing behind him. "We can clear th' tail end and hit them in th' middle t' break them up a bit."

"Perfect." She drew her daggers and felt the hum of their power vibrate beneath her fingertips as the lyrium pulsed to life. "Let's do this."

As she turned, a tanned hand caught her wrist firmly.

"Hawke," Sebastian said, the bright blue of his eyes tinged with worry. He hesitated before squeezing her hand and releasing it, looking as though he had something that his mind was _begging_ him to say. Instead, he exhaled and schooled his features. "Be careful," he told her firmly. "Maker watch over you."

She grinned, giving him a reassuring wave. "Doesn't he always?" With that, she darted off purposefully and didn't look back.

It didn't take long to find the noisy group of attackers as the group combed the alleyways, cursing her and one another at every turn.

Ah, yes. Just when she was starting to miss the flowery language of miscreants who wanted to kill her.

They entered a particularly wide length of street, and Hawke saw her opportunity. She jumped out behind them a ways, glowing blue weapons at the ready.

"Pity," she sighed theatrically, turning all heads in unison as the group snapped to attention. "Here I was hoping you'd be wearing those lovely pleated numbers."

They turned to rush her, and she loosed a wave of ice that froze the first wave of feet to the ground, sprinting around the corner in the opposite direction. Footfalls thundered after her, and the Champion knew that they'd pushed past their rooted comrades to give chase.

So far, so good.

Hawke wove through the alleys, knocking over barrels and crates to trip up her pursuers, but always making sure to keep in their sights. After all, she wouldn't be much good as a lure if they couldn't chase her like good little sight hounds. And she was _very_ practiced at being bait. The occasional jab of ice into the ground as she left it behind served as a good slippery surface to add distance when she needed it, but also left a handy little trail for any stragglers.

All that was left was for MacDougall and Sebastian to thin the herd, and when the three of them met up, they could finish off what was left of the group, leaving a few for questioning.

Of course, it was as she was contemplating her _next_ move that Hawke forgot to check where she currently was. Suddenly, the alley she turned into widened dramatically, and she came to a staggering halt as the massive obstacle to her escape stared her down.

"Oh, Maker's _balls_."

* * *

><p>The Bann yanked a hand-axe from one of the assailants' shoulders, throwing it across the alley to pin yet another would-be attacker to the wall before he could raise his sword above his head. And as a third rushed him, MacDougall gripped the man's head with one gargantuan hand and shoved his skull against the closest wall.<p>

"Boy," he called, fetching his stray axe while swiping with the other. "How fare ye?"

"Yet unscathed," Sebastian answered from the other end of the alley as he fired a volley into the air, raining arrows down on the nearest cluster of men. "Are you injured?"

"No, none of th' blood's mine." The Bann pulled an axe out of the chest it was buried in, elbowing the attacker behind him as he got a better look at the corpses or wounded on the ground. "They don't wear any marks or colors," he observed.

"Hired men?"

"Aye. And not very good ones, from th' looks of it." He grunted as he headbutted the nearest man, sending him tumbling back into his fellows and knocking them all off balance. "Common thugs, most likely. Work for anyone with enough coin."

They'd taken down the entire group they had managed to separate from the main charge, and gathered themselves up as they took a brief moment to survey the carnage. Sebastian's eyes closed for a moment, the deep inhalation of breath steadying his nerves.

It was no comfort to know that after years following Hawke, killing had gradually become easier to stomach. He suspected it would continue to do so as he ruled, necessity forcing his hand, though he swore it would _only_ be out of that necessity, and never anger or personal gain.

"Pray later," the Bann grunted, scanning the alley's exits. "We've got t' find th' rest."

"Did you see where Hawke turned?"

MacDougall furrowed his brow in thought, flicking his hand-axes sharply and sending spatters of blood in clean arcs against the dirt. "Think I saw her run that direction," he said, nodding his chin to the left and turning. "And over a ways."

Sebastian jogged over to him, his blood running cold when he triangulated where, precisely, the Champion's path would lead.

"The river," he realized aloud, and his feet were two steps ahead of him, taking off at a breakneck pace after her fast-melting trail of ice.

"Aye, right at th' south wall," the Bann confirmed, keeping up with long, thudding strides. "Not th' cleanest, but it'll provide an easy getaway should she need it."

"You don't understand," the archer said gravely, issuing desperate prayers in his mind every second she was still out of sight. "Hawke cannot _swim._ If she is cornered..."

The clashing of steel caught his attention, and he turned straight for the source of the noise on instinct alone.

It sounded like the thugs had found her first.

* * *

><p>Hawke considered her options as she turned her back to the water barrier behind her. Nine or ten feet down lay the rushing current, lichen green and thick halfway up the stone walls. Too far to jump to the other side, and no bridges in sight meant that option one was out.<p>

The men advanced on her slowly, cautiously, weapons drawn as though they were hunting a crazed mountain lion. Some had even scaled the walls of nearby houses, creeping across the rooftops and covering all avenues of escape.

She thumbed the runes on her daggers. No fire or tremors. The houses were packed too tightly together, and the damage could destroy nearly half of the district. _And_ she'd traveled lightly, bringing only her weapons, meaning that she had neither flasks nor traps at her disposal. With ice and steel as her only options, Hawke considered what would happen if she tried to freeze as many as she could and then take on the remainder herself.

She'd probably get flanked by the roof-perchers and swarmed by the rest, that's what.

_Balls._ Why was nothing ever easy here?

As the men on the ground gained on her step by step, she slid one foot back and planted. She wasn't giving them an inch. Not with a body of water behind her. If she could hold out until her cavalry arrived, then–

She wouldn't get the chance. The frontmost thug raised his sword and yelled, running forward to lead the charge. Hawke's hands and daggers glowed white-blue as she prepared an icy onslaught...

...and shouts accompanied a cascade of tumbling bodies from the rooftop to her left.

She took advantage of the momentary confusion to jab her blades into the ground, fixing dozens of pairs of boots icily to the street. Only then did she hazard a glance up at the commotion next to her that had resulted in the small collection of bodies.

A flash of green and gold brought a smile to her face.

"Ah, my dear Champion," the elf called down as he parried an attack with a rapier in one hand, swiping in with a dagger in the other. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"What are the chances," she yelled back flippantly as she started to take down her temporarily legless company before the frost thawed. Zevran kicked one bleeding assailant down into the pile he'd started before following with a spry leap, Antivan finery fluttering prettily as the duelist's cape flapped about his shoulders.

"You dress for the occasion?" Hawke snickered, punching a nearby thug squarely in the nose, knocking him unconscious and sending waves of happiness up her arm at _finally_ having decked someone. "_Maker,_" she breathed, "that was better than an orgasm."

Chuckling as he dodged and swiped, the former Crow clucked his tongue. "That sounded like a _challenge_, my dear." Before she could retort, he flattened his opponent roughly against the wall. "And no, I simply have a certain image to maintain while I stylishly impersonate an ambassador. You understand, I hope."

"Of course. To your left!"

"Thank you, _princesa_." He casually slashed the air in front of his would-be attacker, startling the man into stumbling backwards and consequently onto one of his comrades' outstretched blades. "Mm," he purred, "such fond memories this brings back. Just like in Kirkwall, no?"

"Ah, the good old days," she sighed, bracing her back against his to kick one particularly burly thug in the knee, sending him careening into the river. "Except I don't recall ever seeing you with a sword."

"This old thing?" He speared through tender flesh and slid in to finish the job. "They are all the rage in Antiva City. Mine, however, is not merely for decoration, as you may have noticed."

"You're not bad with it," she huffed, ducking out of a hand-axe's trajectory. "I'm impressed."

"Such high praise!" He chuckled. "Behind you, my dear."

"Much obliged." She dropped and spun, driving her daggers up into a broad chest and lifting the man clear off the ground. Catching a glimpse of incoming feet, she snapped upright and spun her weapons in her hands. "Zev, get down!"

He sighed theatrically as he complied, the beams of ice leaving a frosty trail across his shoulders as they passed over him and hit their targets. "Why do you only call me intimately in moments such as these? How unromantic you are."

She smirked, deflecting an airborne knife from its path. "Hey," she called, "bend over."

His eyes glinted as he braced his hands on his knees. "You see?" he murmured. "Was that so difficult?"

* * *

><p>Sebastian had arrived at the scene ahead of MacDougall, who had been waylaid by stragglers and yelled for him to go aid Hawke. Though from the looks of it, he wasn't needed.<p>

The Antivan elf was with her, a flurry of shadows and steel and sarcasm as they took on the entire pack by themselves. And while the prince was overjoyed to see the Champion alive and safe, a powerful sense of envy from seeing them fight together crept like a vine into his abdomen. As a pair, they were an incredible sight, all fluidity and wordless communication and effortless teamwork. They suited one another well, and the two dagger-masters looked as thought they'd fought side by side all their lives.

And Hawke was positively _radiant_.

Ducking out of sight behind the corner and taking aim, Sebastian cleared the rooftops of any thugs threatening to jump into the fray, checking on his tornado of a fiancee between shots. She and Zevran worked around each other's bodies with a kind of understanding that only another fighter accomplished in the same style could possess. And they smiled and bantered as their blades hit bone and weapons were thrown at their faces.

She trusted the assassin, Sebastian realized, and he found himself more and more curious as to how such a friendship had come to be.

His sights clear, he watched as Zevran bent at the knees and waist, his hands on his knees and back flat as Hawke used him to propel herself into the air. From her height, she encased the remaining trio of brutes in a solid block of ice, shattering them with her feet as she landed.

Her partner turned to shield himself from the shards, grinning smugly as he picked a few scraps of frozen armor from the Champion's hair and shoulders. Gesturing to the carnage, he gave a mock bow and said something to make Hawke burst out laughing. At that familiar sound, most of the tension melted from the archer's shoulders, and he began to turn toward them with a smile.

"...and not a drop of blood on me!" he heard Zevran boast just as he emerged from cover. "The Maker smiles on my choice of silks today, it seems."

"Yes," Hawke smirked, "your looks, and your timing, are impeccable. As always."

Chuckling, the elf slid a tanned arm around her waist, leaning in with a smolder in his eyes that rivaled Sebastian's in his heyday.

"Then," he said in a low, soft voice as he closed the distance between their faces, "do I not deserve some small reward for my efforts?"

The prince of Starkhaven skidded to a halt as he watched the Crow solidly kiss his still-smiling future bride. And his blood ran cold as realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

Hawke didn't flinch. She didn't tense, she didn't push him away, and she most _certainly_ didn't look like this was a new development. Zevran's hands spent no time exploring to find their rest; they already knew her body well. Familiarity emanated from his fingers as they traced her curves over the form-fitting armor, and a knowing smile ghosted the corners of his lips against hers.

They knew each other far more _intimately_ than they had let on.

Returned to the shadows, Sebastian leaned back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. With each strained intake of breath, he prayed that when he turned the corner, the two of them would have parted. Yes, it was a kiss and nothing more, but it was still painful to _see_, and it merely served as confirmation of the nagging suspicion that had planted itself in the back of his mind the first time he'd met the honey-tongued Antivan.

He was snapped out of it by the Bann's hurried arrival. "Is it clear," the enormous, panting man asked. "Is she safe?"

"Aye," Sebastian said coolly, "we should not have worried. She and Zevran had things well in hand."

Frowning, MacDougall pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Th' froofy elf?"

"The Antivan Crow," corrected Sebastian, and he watched the Bann's expression harden.

"Your lady," he replied carefully, "has powerful friends."

"Yes," Sebastian repeated as he turned the corner. "_Friends._"

Up ahead, Hawke was rifling through the thugs' pouches and pockets, going through her usual check for coin or incriminating evidence. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and her face brightened to see him. "Sebastian!"

Any other time, such a reaction would have lifted his spirits a bit. But not now.

She stood, sheathing her daggers. "I finally got a good fight," she said, chipper. "And Zevran saved my ass, thank the Maker."

"But of course," the elf called from his seated position atop a barrel, where he cleaned his blades with the edge of an unconscious attacker's tunic. "I am but your humble servant, _princesa_."

Hawke shot him a look over her shoulder at the use of the nickname, but said nothing. "Anyway," she continued, "was everything all right on your end? You seem to be in one piece."

"It was," the prince replied dryly, "and I am."

"That's good. Then we should look through this before the guard comes to clean it up." She turned to resume her task, but an uncharacteristically sharp voice stopped her.

"Leave it." His blue eyes were cold.

Puzzled, she wiped her palms on her leathers. "But – "

"Go on," called the Bann. "Get t' disappearing. I can explain things better if th' two of ye aren't around."

Sebastian grabbed Hawke's wrist roughly without a word, his jaw clenched and body stiff.

And he practically dragged her back to the estate, silent against her protests.

* * *

><p>Zevran watched the two disappear around the corner, hopping down from his perch with a self-satisfied chuckle.<p>

"Ye look pleased with yerself," called the bear-like man he now knew as the Bann of Shallervale. "Fighting street gangs makes ye happy, does it?"

"Not at all, my impressively bearded friend. I have simply done a good deed."

The Bann grunted as he checked for survivors. "What's that, then?"

Zevran pressed the heel of one boot into the shoulder of a nearby corpse, rolling it onto its back. There, sticking out of its chest, was an arrow marked with the unique fletching of the Royal Archers.

A smirk curled his perfect lips as he recalled the look on the prince's face when he'd taken his prize. The subsequent dodge around the corner left much to be desired in the way of subtlety, but who could blame him?

"I gave your princeling a little push, nothing more. As a favor to the _princesa_."

And the way Sebastian had just hauled Hawke off like a man possessed had spoken volumes as to how well Zevran's little stunt had worked.

MacDougall raised a bushy red eyebrow, but ultimately inclined his head in appreciation. "I'm not sure _exactly_ what it is ye did, but I'm glad a romantic's keeping an eye on them."

Zevran sighed, stepping delicately onto a waking man's chest before hitting him with the pommel of his dagger and returning him to unconsciousness. "Tis true; I am far too softhearted."

"I won't say a word, if they give Starkhaven an heir."

The elf's eyes glittered as he tapped a gloved finger to his nose. "Then let us both hope they do not waste this chance to do so, hmm?"

* * *

><p>The doors to their suite were slammed shut behind them as Sebastian shoved Hawke inside.<p>

"_Maker_, Sebastian," she groused as she rubbed her swollen wrist where he'd gripped too tightly, "what the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

He didn't reply, calmly covering the room in a few long strides and opening the door to their bedchamber. Frowning, Hawke followed him in, the curtains still drawn and sealing the room in darkness, save for the bright beams creeping through occasional gaps in the gathered fabric. She could see him in front of the vanity drawers, palms on the waist-height edge, head hung low. And he looked almost nothing like his usual self.

"Sebastian," she called quietly, reaching to lay a hand on his arm. After a moment, his other hand came up to cover hers, calloused fingertips brushing along her warm skin.

Suddenly, she found herself flung against the mirror, backside sliding along the vanity's wooden surface. Her thighs hung over the edge, Sebastian standing between them. As the skin of her shoulderblades stung from slamming into the glass, she spat out a half-formed curse and caught her breath. Not that she was given a proper chance to, as in the next moment, she was pushed back into the mirror with the force of a body and mouth assaulting hers.

Hawke moaned despite herself, winding her hands into his hair and working her tongue against his. She grimaced at the grind of his armor into her chest, which brought about a prompt and considerate removal of his breastplate. As it clattered to the floor and she pulled the archer back to her, a small voice in the back of Hawke's head kept saying that this wasn't normal, that he wasn't himself right now, that something -

The voice was quickly overruled by the feeling of deft fingertips loosening the ties on her armor, and as she shuffled her chestpiece and shoulder guards loose, two half-gloved hands chased after the vulnerable flesh it revealed. One slipped up under the fabric of her undershirt, quickly finding her breasts and sliding rough, bare fingers and leather-clad palms under her breast band.

A gasp escaped her lungs, muffled against the skin of his cheek as he moved his mouth to her throat and back again. Her legs wrapped around his waist, one hand squeezing through what little space there was between their bodies to loosen the buckle on his belt and tug it down past his hips. It, too, slid to the floor, and without Andraste's face in the way, Hawke could feel the stiffness of a _very_ forceful hard-on as she thrust her crotch into his.

Something resembling a growl resonated in Sebastian's chest and throat at the contact, and when she hurriedly moved the hand sandwiched between them lower to grip what she could through his breeches, he moaned into the hollow of her neck. Grinding himself against her palm, he reclaimed her mouth, the hand _not_ preoccupied with tormenting one of her nipples sliding forward over her stomach to undo the ties on her pants. A strong, insistent yank at the waist brought them down to mid-thigh, and his lips never left hers as he withdrew enough to tug his right glove off and whip it to the ground. He was back against her in an instant, the warmth of his palm over her inner thigh sending a shiver through her body.

When he reached her smalls, expert fingers slipped under the thin fabric and began shallow, torturous work.

The Champion's limbs trembled as she curled inward, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the rabbit's fur in his collar. And there was no warm chuckle at her clinging, nor an affectionate stroke of her hair. There was only his mouth at her ear, speaking her given name in that thick accent made heavier and lower with want.

_Everyone should marry an archer,_ she thought as his fingers elicited a shudder. How this man survived in the Chantry with hands like this, she would never know.

_Chantry._

The thought felt like an ice cube trailing down her spine, and not in the good way.

She hated having character sometimes.

"I'm all for this," she managed, murmuring against his temple, "but what made you change your mind about waiting?"

She felt his shoulders stiffen and his hand stop, and while her body cursed her mouth, unease settled in her gut.

"He's had you," the prince said slowly, quietly, "hasn't he?"

That ice cube of nervousness turned into a bucket of cold water.

_Maker's sacred balls._ He'd seen the kiss.

Hawke bit her lip and let her head fall back against the mirror with a light _thunk_. She was a huge proponent of the truth, even when it was a terrible idea. And right now, it _really_ was.

"Yes," she admitted. "A few times."

She felt Sebastian slump against her, hands now against the bureau on either side of her hips to hold himself up.

"I helped him out once on Sundermount," she explained, "and when we found out that we had Cadhla in common, I offered to let him use my manor as a safehouse whenever he was in the area. The sex was just a physical thing between friends, nothing more." She drew a deep, shaky breath. "It was just after the Arishok left."

The archer tensed and drew back, anger flashing behind his bright eyes. "So you ran to a stranger, an _assassin_, for comfort?"

Irritated, she narrowed her eyes and straightened up, shoving his arms away with her shoulders. "He's proven himself," she spat back, "and right in front of you! Not only did he just save my life, he got us information at the banquet that might save _yours._ Besides," she added quickly, "who else in Kirkwall would offer me comfort? _You_?"

"If anyone could have convinced me to break my vows, it would be you, Hawke. Especially if I had thought it would help you."

She stilled, the anger starting to drain from her chest. He was looking her in the eyes now, completely earnest.

"Try to see me_,_" he pleaded as his hands gripped her shoulders, "as a _man._"

...And it came _right_ back. She smacked his hands away, sliding to her feet and fixing her clothes. "As opposed to _what_," she hissed, "a sexless paragon of all things bright and beautiful?"

"I meant – "

"I'm not the one with the vows here!" She rounded on him, frustration taking over. At this point, she didn't care if the entire manor heard her. "Why do you think I haven't made a serious attempt at you yet?" she challenged him sharply. "I _know_ you know I want to. I could go into detail about the things that run through my head every time you so much as _touch_ me."

He swallowed hard. "Don't. _Please._"

"And yet we sleep in the _same bed_," she continued angrily, "and I haven't so much as snuck a hand under your nightclothes. Why? Because I respect your faith and your integrity. And I know how important it is to you and this whole arrangement is about _respect_. But I have my limits."

She glared up at him, defiantly standing directly in his personal space. "So you have _one_ chance to tell me you want to stick to your convictions, or else I'm pinning you down on that bed and finishing what you started."

Sebastian stood in silence as she watched him. One gloved hand ran through his smooth red hair, the other hanging by his side as he rubbed still-slick fingertips together slowly, carefully. When he raised his head to look at her, his blue-green eyes glittered with something that made her skin burn.

She wanted him. But she wanted the _real_ him, not this jealous prick who had come out of nowhere. And if that meant reminding him of his vows, so be it.

Suddenly, it was like his mask broke, and the tanned face returned to its familiar gentleness.

"Hawke," he said, looking thoroughly abashed, "I don't – I am _so_ sorry."

She sighed, simultaneously relieved and murderous. "I'm keeping track of how many times you do this to me, you know."

"And you've every right to."

"You'll have to do a lot of making up for this."

"I understand."

"Good." She shoved him toward the door, palming the Antivan oil that Zevran had so helpfully provided.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I have something to take care of."

And she shut him out.

* * *

><p>As the latch clicked closed, Sebastian leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor with a groan.<p>

What in Andraste's name had he been _thinking?_

He hadn't been. For that moment, he had been his younger self, impetuous and arrogant and possessive to the point of anger. There was no rational thought, only her skin and breath and warmth and the way it took nearly nothing to make her tremble beneath his hands.

And now, she was alone in their bedroom, unsatisfied and with a bottle of warming oil. He couldn't stop his imagination from torturing him, and as he faintly heard the pop of the cork from beyond the door, he bit back a groan.

It took far too much effort to stand, but he did so, the mail on his muscled frame feeling heavier than ever.

_Maker give me strength_, he prayed as he made his way to the bath closet, discreetly locking the door behind him.

* * *

><p>"According t' th' shirt, these're the points."<p>

As the wooden markers were put into place on his map table, MacDougall tossed aside the bloodstained leine they'd used as a reference.

"Where's Hawke?" he asked Sebastian, who stood opposite him at the table.

"Accompanying Aeryn on her errands," the archer answered. "After today's attack, she thought it prudent."

"Appreciated," the Bann grunted. "Anyhow, have a look."

The two men leaned over, Eoin unloading an armful of maps and books on the desk beside the fireplace before joining them.

Four tiny triangles sat on the carved surface, not a single one sitting on a recognizable... anything.

"Well," the Bann muttered, scratching his beard, "maybe we had it turned t' th' side."

"No," Sebastian asserted, "my left hand was on the Estonborough keep, I'm sure of it."

"I'll take your word then, lad."

They all stood back, scanning the map.

"What's your take?" he prompted, towering over the room's other occupants.

"Well," Eoin said thoughtfully as he indicated the top and bottom-most markers, "I know nearly all the main roads in Starkhaven by heart. This one..." He tapped the lower of the two. "This is right near the route through the Vimmark mountain pass. To Kirkwall. And the other..." The northern one next to the river this time. "This is the biggest port to Antiva."

Stretching across the surface, he made little circles in the air above the two points. "They're rather near the two biggest routes out of Starkhaven."

"So he intends to prevent our departure?" Sebastian mused, frowning. "It seems a bit odd, unless..." He turned to the Bann. "Unless at the point he anticipates, it would be an_ escape_."

"Meaning he aims to try something," MacDougall understood. "Right. So that leaves th' other two. One in Blythefeld, in th' middle of nowhere." He pointed to the southwestern bannorn, which the prince knew to be mostly farmland.

"And one just outside the city proper," Sebastian added, "in Estonborough, but near nothing in particular."

The Bann grumbled something unintelligible, and Eoin surveyed the distance between the points. "When did you say that Loudain's men left?"

"The afternoon of the banquet," the chantryman responded. "And most likely on Tevinter Highwatches, if that is of any use."

"It is." After a moment of circling and consideration, the former horsemaster of Tantervale exhaled slowly. "Even with their speed, it would be fully three days before they all reached their marks."

"Then we've got at most a day or two before th' man makes a move." The Bann unrolled a map of Estonborough, laying it flat on the desk. "I'd expect it sooner rather than later. He needs t' move quickly if he's t' keep ye from gaining any more support than ye already have."

"Then let us hope he does so," Sebastian said, eyeing the Estonborough mark, "and in his haste makes an error in judgment."

"We can hope," MacDougall grunted. "Though swear t' me ye won't pull any heroic nonsense. Th' _instant_ ye catch wind of aught suspicious, ye come to me, understood?"

"Understood."

"And don't go out in th' middle of nowhere alone again," the Bann added with an amused snort, reaching for another map. "That was _dim_."

* * *

><p>It was the wee hours of the morning before the strategy meeting finally came to an end, contingencies laid out and avenues traced until Sebastian was convinced he would feel some sort of <em>relief<em> when Loudain's attack finally came, if for no other reason than it would put an end to this damnable anticipation.

He closed the door to his and Hawke's rooms gently so as not to wake her, shedding his armor in the main chamber for the same reason. The door to the bedroom was ajar, firelight spilling into his path as he pushed it open quietly and slipped inside. After closing the door latch carefully and donning his nightclothes, he lifted the coverlet and slid into bed beside the sleeping Champion.

She stirred at the movement, and with faint irritated mumbling, she turned on her side to face him, eyes still closed in slumber. She tried to pinch his nose, but only managed to clumsily splay her fingers across the center of his face. The resulting movement of his smirk and the warm breath on her fingers seemed to pacify her annoyance at being disturbed, and her frown melted away. A placid smile graced her lips in her drowsy delirium, and she reached for him, limbs heavy with sleep.

He shifted closer, wrapping his arms around her waist as hers encircled his neck snugly, holding him against her to warm his skin, cold from walking the abandoned hallways. Stroking his hair in a slow, soothing rhythm, she murmured comfort and nonsensical dream-speech that made Sebastian chuckle.

If this was what he would have to come home to, he thought to himself as he felt a gentle sigh graze his ear, he could do anything. Even weather through an assassination attempt.

Hawke's words died into quiet snores, and her heartbeat slowed its lazy pace against his own.

And there in the stillness, quietly as though testing the words, the Prince of Starkhaven nigh-inaudibly admitted aloud that he was in love.


	13. A Gun in Act I

A/N: Big chapter this month!

I'm back in the states for a few weeks, so my writing schedule might be a bit off. But that doesn't stop the ideas from coming. =)

* * *

><p>Hawke donned a thick blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders as she pushed open the door to the parapet beside her rooms. It was the roof of the lower floor, edged with a waist-high stone wall and absent of sentries in the chilly morning air. Birdsong accompanied the half-risen sun as beams of light warmed the air, the city below beginning to stir.<p>

Habit had led her into her armor and weapons as soon as she woke and with their security, she felt somehow more prepared to take on whatever challenges the day might bring. She'd grabbed the woven fabric from a bench by the door at seeing a familiar form standing out in the sun, and a smile warmed her face as he turned to greet her.

She wasn't sure when she had begun to seek him out for no other reason than to see his face. Back in Kirkwall, there were times when she'd relied on his kindness and stability to push her through the harder days, but the urge was coming to her more and more often as of late.

It didn't help that it was easy to indulge; he was always close at hand.

She leaned against the wall next to him, shivering at the cool touch of stone. "You went to bed after I did and woke before I did, too. How does that work, exactly?"

He offered her a tired smile, and the reddish orange tones that painted the world at dawn spilled across his shoulders as he moved.

"I had difficulty sleeping," he admitted, turning to stare out at the daybreak routines of the people of Starkhaven. "Too many questions. And no thought of _thousands_ an answer."

Hawke wasn't surprised. She'd have been more concerned if the pressure of so many lives _wasn't_ weighing down on the prince's shoulders. He would have many such moments, she knew, even after taking the throne. And many sleepless nights.

She knew the feeling.

Raising a hand to shield her eyes from the rising sun, she smirked a little, trying to cheer him.

"Look on the bright side. At least you're not inheriting _Kirkwall_, for Andraste's sake."

He chuckled, raising his head a bit. "Thank the Maker."

"Can you imagine? You'd have to exterminate a dragon or take down a carta every other _week._"

She watched as his smile flickered and faded, concern taking its place. "In truth," he told her after a moment, "I have often wondered if I am dooming that city by asking what I am of you."

"Hey," she said, planting her hands firmly on his shoulders, "Kirkwall was falling apart before either of us even set foot in it. And it's taken me a long time to accept that I can't save that place, only the people in it that I care about. Varric, Aveline, Fenris, Bethany, Bodahn, _you_..." She caught his eyes with hers. "If something happens, I'll save them, but I'm not sacrificing myself for that place. Not any more."

Her shoulder pressed into his as she turned to face the noble quarter alongside him. "I've made my choice. I'm moving on before Kirkwall and all of its problems suck my soul right out of my body." Palms tightening around the stone in front of her, her features and tone were determined. "My place is here now, in Starkhaven. And I'll fight for this city's future, because it _has_ one."

She felt his stare, and she turned to see the future prince beaming down at her like she was the face of Andraste herself.

After a moment, his eyes caught light, and he took a step back, rifling through one of his pouches. "That reminds me," he said, "these arrived yesterday. I hadn't yet thought to ask for your approval."

Curious, Hawke watched his nimble fingers dig around until they triggered a kind of chiming sound, then emerged delicately tangled in a length of blue-gray silk ribbon. When he uncurled his fingers, a bound-together pair of silver rings rolled into his palm.

Wedding bands, she realized. Something tightened around her heart as she saw him pick them up gently, holding them out for her inspection.

"I purchased them a few days ago," Sebastian explained in his soft brogue as she took them gingerly. "They are traditional Starkhaven bands – simple, but unique in the way they interlock."

Sure enough, if she turned them _just_ so, a few sculpted grooves aligned to perfectly hold together. As she looked closely, she saw markings on the inside, and held them up closer to get a better look.

"They're engraved?"

"Aye."

The larger of the two had 'SV&MH' in large, ornate letters, and on either side were a second set of initials: 'MV' and 'TV.'

"Who are – "

"My parents," he told her. "Meghan and Thomas. Another custom of my people."

A thought struck her, and she switched to the smaller band, straining to read the inscription.

Sure enough, other than the scrolling 'SV&MH,' she saw 'LA' and, to her surprise, an unmistakable second 'MH' beside it.

"Malcolm," she breathed, turning to him. Voice hoarse with undisguised disbelief, she managed a feeble "You remembered – you even _know_ my father's name?"

Sebastian looked deservedly self-satisfied as he leaned an arm against the ramparts. "Of course."

_Of course,_ she thought to herself. _Of course, he says. _

_Mairead, don't you _dare_ fucking cry._

Without really understanding why, Hawke launched herself into his arms, suddenly desperate for the taste of his mouth and the archer's familiar smell of rabbit's fur and doeskin leather. He welcomed her into his chest, bending at the waist with a soft chuckle and a gloved palm snaking over her jawline.

This kiss wasn't like the others they'd shared. Not clumsy and frantic, nor nervous and tentative. The way she completely fell against him and he firmly held her close brought emotions to the surface that she had long since dismissed, tossed aside as circumstantial and fleeting. They were back with a vengeance now, as she briefly opened herself up to him fully for the first time and he reciprocated in that honest, soul-baring way of his. It was slow, it was warm, and it was powerful.

And it made Hawke's chest hurt.

Her lips left his as she sank down from her toes, limbs still committed to his. She felt a contented sigh escape from the depths of his chest from her position against it, cheek pressed into the smooth chill of white armor as her hot breath left a trailing mist over its surface. The intimacy was overwhelming, and despite the comfort of his body, she had the distinct feeling that something was wrong, off somehow. Panic stirred in her veins, and her heart followed suit.

Then she heard him say the words.

Her blood flushed ice-cold as she turned up to him abruptly, not trusting – or wanting to trust - her ears. "What did you just say?"

His face. Oh, _Maker_, having an expression like that wasn't fair.

"I love you," he repeated slowly, quietly. "If you were not yet aware."

A dizzying fog started to roll into the edges of her vision, and Hawke shook her head in an attempt to clear it. "I... wasn't, no."

"Shall I make it clearer, then?" He brought his arms around her even tighter, and she tensed as he spoke, willing herself to stay despite the voice screaming in her head.

_Run,_ it said. _Run. Run. Get out, go. Don't let him do this. Go. Run! Anywhere. Anywhere but here._

"I am yours," Sebastian continued, "with every fiber of my being. Every thought, every movement, everything I am as a man, as a brother of the faith, as a prince."

With every word, the Champion's stomach churned. This wasn't happening. He didn't understand – this _couldn't_ be happening.

She braced her palms against the polished white plate, pushing back and nearly out of his reach. "But," she protested, "love is such a strong, diverse word, maybe you – "

He raised an eyebrow at that, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. "It seems I have surprised you twice today, and the sun hasn't even fully risen."

Hawke wrung her hands, distraught. "How can you be so _sure_?"

"How can I not be?" He frowned, advancing on her as she subconsciously took a stumbling step back. "What possible reason could you have," he asked carefully, "to doubt my sincerity? My past? My inexperience? My life in the chantry?"

"It's not your sincerity," she said, pressing her palms into her temples. "I just –" She looked up at him with eyes pleading him to somehow magically rethink his words. "A fortnight's not long enough to fall in love with someone, Sebastian."

His face changed from confusion to despair to frustration, the openness of his emotions a testament to how truly unexpected a development this was for the prince. Hawke wondered how he had pictured this going, if he had at all.

"Not to fall in love, no," he answered, "but it is enough to open a man's heart."

"Open a – !"

He interrupted her then, anger carved into his features. "You have never backed down when challenging anything I held true. In all the years that I have known you, not once. Being with you has _changed_ me, Hawke. This is another change that you have wrought." His expression softened, and he reached for her. "And it is perhaps the first one that I don't intend to fight."

She flinched away from his touch, and he wasn't fast enough to hide the look of pain that shot across him before he steeled it away into his growing frustration.

"Why now?" he snapped. "Why run from this?"

Hawke felt a pang of guilt at the small burst of relief that his raised voice had granted her. His quick temper, _that _she could deal with.

"A man you claim to respect and care for has just confessed himself to be _in love with you_," he continued in low, controlled tones. "And you refuse to even _accept _it?" She didn't answer, and his fist struck the stone at his side. "Maker's _breath_, Hawke. I know what I feel, and I won't be denied my own emotions!"

He turned away for a moment, jaw clenched as he stared down at the courtyard. "What did the Arishok say," he said coldly, bitterly, "that gave you so much confidence in his affection for you?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mairead could see that he regretted them. And they were getting to the point where they were both saying things they'd regret.

Hawke had a lot she didn't want to say like this.

"Not another word," she begged as she backed away, "_please._"

It might not have been the most courageous thing to do, but it was the only thing in her head that made sense.

So she ran for the doors, bolting away from the nausea and the vulnerability and the guilt.

* * *

><p>He should have kept his huge, foolish, impatient mouth shut. Or claimed that his thick accent had marred the words from something innocuous and assuredly <em>not<em> an impromptu declaration of love.

Hawke had been gone for most of the day now, leaving Sebastian hours upon hours to stew in self-pity and torment and nearly wear a hole in the study's rug with his pacing.

He'd gone over it dozens, if not hundreds of times in his head, reliving every second in vivid detail. The moment she stepped onto the parapet. The way she spoke about Starkhaven with passion and promise. The kiss, that moment of tenderness and unexpected honesty that rivaled the Maker's light in its blinding strength. And then the one phrase that had pulled it all to a screeching halt.

Stupid, _stupid_ man.

He hadn't been expecting bells or a flock of doves, but he had thought that she would react with a smile, an embrace, perhaps even a sarcastic remark or two – anything but _fear. _The look on her face would haunt the prince for as long as he lived.

He shouldn't have reacted with anger, he thought as he sat in a chair in front of the fire. But what could she have expected him to do, after the way she tried so desperately to dismiss it? There was only so much a man could _take_.

And then she'd turned from him and run, to Maker-only-knew-where.

It was a very Hawke thing to do, he understood. However, the Sebastian thing to do was find her and insist on speaking his mind and hearing hers. Even if it meant she'd break a few of his bones in the process.

Resolute, he stood and fetched his bow.

"You're going out?"

Aeryn leaned against the manor's entryway, watching Sebastian pull a hooded cloak about his shoulders.

"To find Hawke," he answered, locking the clasp in place. "She's been gone since early morn."

"Maybe she wants to be left alone."

He smiled weakly. "And I would grant her that, but for the fact that she cannot be alone if we are now targets. It is dangerous. I should be the one to bring her back."

The Bann's daughter wrapped her arms around herself as she straightened. "She's Hawke," she said, "she'll be fine. She won't go anywhere that puts her at risk."

She turned to leave, but the archer caught her wrist. As she turned, his expression was grave.

"You know where she is," he said slowly, "don't you?"

"I – "

"_Aeryn._"

She sighed, rubbing her wrist as he released it. "She's going to _murder_ me for this."

* * *

><p>Just once, Hawke would love to see a statue of Andraste laughing or making an obscene hand gesture instead of the solemn and dispassionate glare that her likenesses almost universally sported.<p>

She stared up at the huge stone goddess in the Starkhaven chantry, the cavernous and polished cathedral just as bright as she'd have imagined it. Leaning her head against the back of the pew, she admired the painted ceiling lined with intricately carved gold moldings. Stained glass, a hundred thousand candles, and the faint sound of the Chant echoing off of a distant corridor all contributed to an overwhelming sense of piety.

And she'd thought the _Kirkwall_ Chantry was bad.

After a moment, she sighed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees and the leather of her armor creaking with every movement. Her pew was smack dab in the middle of the room, out in the open, which left her less vulnerable to an attack but far more subject to the judgment of passersby.

She'd been here for hours. The sisters had begun to talk.

_Let them say what they want_, she thought as she rolled her thumbs together idly. This was, oddly enough, the place she'd ultimately come to to clear her head. And there were a lot of things to purge.

She didn't look up at the gentle _clack_ of a familiar bow being laid against the wood, nor at the rustling sound of mail and armor as its owner sat beside her.

"I was wondering when you'd find me."

"Forced it out of Aeryn, I'm afraid." He paused. "Though I will admit, I wasn't sure if I believed her at first."

Hawke snickered faintly. "Understandable."

"Of all places," he asked, sounding genuinely curious, "why the Chantry? You've never been particularly devout."

She rested her chin on one hand, still not turning to look at him. "Thought it only polite to apologize to the Maker for corrupting one of His faithful away from the brotherhood."

Sebastian hesitated, and she saw his hand lift to touch hers out of her peripheral vision. He apparently thought better of it, though, and replaced it on his own thigh.

"I forfeited my vows when I swore to avenge my family's murder," he explained, "before we even met. And I chose the path I walk of my own free will. You are blameless."

"I wouldn't say that. I'm helping."

"So you've spent an entire afternoon and evening... speaking to the Maker?" He sounded equally dubious and impressed.

"Not exactly." She gestured to the enormous gilded arch that housed the larger-than-life statue of the Maker's bride. "I needed to think, so I can appreciate the quiet here. And the confessional booths are conveniently located along both walls."

The disbelief in his voice bordered on amusement. "You, Hawke, confessing? What for?"

"Oh, you know." She smiled dryly. "Lying, theft, murder..."

He chuckled a little. "No wonder you were here all day."

Hawke turned at the sound, and wished she hadn't. He was wearing a tentative smile, trying desperately to reassure her, make things like they were between them before what had passed that morning. She couldn't help but let a small, strangled laugh escape at their shared idiocy and the way his attempt had only made what she needed to say that much worse.

Looking back up at Andraste, she swore under her breath and shook her head. He was making this so damned hard. She pressed her hands together and leaned into them, covering her nose and mouth as she inhaled deeply.

"I killed Jacob MacPhain."

The uncomfortable creak of armor.

"He was killed by a fire_._"

"I set it."

And then there was silence. She slid her hands between her knees, running her fingers over her knuckles nervously and focusing her eyes on the grain of the wood in the pew before her.

"Why?" He didn't sound angry. He was still processing, which was almost worse. She'd been optimistic when she'd hoped for anger.

"He meant you harm," she said softly. "And if there was even a chance he'd keep coming after you, ruin the chances for you and Starkhaven..."

She trailed off, unsure of what else to say at that point. Instead, she let the air hang around them in a sort of soundless limbo as Sebastian sat unmoving and not at all indicative of his reaction to this new piece of information. It was some time before he broke the quiet, albeit only briefly.

"Anything else?"

"No."

Back to silence, and the anticipation was torturous. He'd slowly and considerately unfolded and refolded his hands at one point in the few long minutes since they'd last spoken, but the motion itself belied no emotion or obvious thought, just that he was lost in his own mind. Hawke knew that she should just sit and wait and perhaps pray (that might've been the smart, _appropriate_ option), but she had never been much of a patient woman. And though it was unfair to not give him ten minutes when he'd given her ten hours, she couldn't stop her mouth from opening.

"I've killed a lot of people."

"And you feel this excuses you?"

_No. Yes? No._ She shook her head, rolling her shoulders back and sitting more upright. "I wanted to protect you, keep your hands clean."

"I appreciate that, but it justifies nothing." He spoke in short, tense tones, his quiet outrage bubbling at the surface of his controlled veneer. "I am the Prince of Starkhaven, and I will not be kept in the dark about what goes on in my lands, nor those that act for me without my consent. Not even by you. _Especially_ not by you. Am I understood?"

"Yes, highness."

It was as simple as that. She had said it unironically, not a note of sarcasm in her voice. It was an acknowledging gesture, a chance for him to put distance between the relationship he had with her as a prince of the realm and as a friend. To her surprise, and relief, he took it.

"You take far too much upon yourself, Hawke." His stiff posture broke and he leaned back, staring up at Andraste's neutral face. "You always have. And more so than my position," he continued, "more so than the honesty, I want you to understand..." His voice gentled as he trailed off.

"You don't have to do that any longer. Not with me."

Hawke's throat tightened. Even as her stomach begged him not to continue, she fought the urge to reach up and physically cover his mouth before he brought her to tears in front of what suddenly seemed to be an awful lot of people. He needed to speak and she needed to listen, candle smoke in her eyes be damned.

"You are not a terrible secret," the prince said slowly. "Nor are you a tool, a means to an end to be used and hidden in the blood-covered shadows in order that those in power keep their own hands clean. You are treasured, as you should be." Features resolute, he set his jaw. "I will not allow Starkhaven to use you as Kirkwall has. I swear it, on my family and my title and my faith."

After a moment, he sighed and glanced down to his gloved fingers. "I also must apologize."

She frowned, turning to see his face. "For what?"

"This morning." He paused, searching for the words. "It was too sudden."

Hawke pressed her lips between her teeth. "It was."

Curious, he turned to face her fully for the first time since entering the cathedral. "If I may ask, why did you run?"

_And here we come to the main show of the evening_, she thought bitterly, knowing it would have happened eventually. In hindsight, it might have been wise to prepare a speech or trigger a small disaster to buy more time. She hadn't, however, and instead allowed her thoughts to tumble unchecked from her mouth."I didn't know what else to do," she admitted. "I'm not the best at dealing with things that involve my own emotions, if you haven't noticed." He waited expectantly for further explanation, and she kept talking. She owed him that much.

"It was a lot of guilt," she continued. "Guilt from the lie, guilt from taking you from the chantry, guilt for giving in to a lot of my own insecurities." As that last phrase passed her lips, she made the quick, ripping-off-a-bandage decision to answer his question ten hours after it was asked. "The Arishok never told me he loved me."

Sebastian flinched at that, looking pained. "You don't have to – "

"But you're curious, right?"

He hesitated. "It would be a lie to say I wasn't."

"It's all right." She braced her feet against the back of the previous pew, and he didn't scold her. "He never said it outright, just treated me as an equal. And I don't know if that kind of love is the same as a human's, or even love at all by some definitions. But it was what we had, and we both just... understood it." She shifted uncomfortably under the archer's unwavering gaze, but decided to go for broke anyway, sharing what was on her mind as the thoughts occurred to her. "Maybe we can never love two people the same way," she mused. "I mean, my relationship with the Arishok was unique, not just in the..." she struggled for the word, "_strangeness_ of it, but because of the people we are. My relationship with you will be similarly full of stumbling blocks in that way, I think."

She saw him visibly react to the word 'relationship,' as though it held some meaning that required explanation. His hand very slowly came to rest on the back of the seat, and she could hear the intake of breath as he considered his next words.

"Do you think," he met her eyes, "that there is a chance? One day, perhaps, with time."

She didn't have to ask; she understood. "The seeds are there," she confessed honestly, "I think. I mean, there are signs, and the things I feel, but it's still too soon to say."

Ah, silence. The greatest herald of suffering.

He turned away after a short while, face unreadable. "Thank you for your honesty."

"I couldn't lie about something like that. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Don't be." He turned back to her, and the Champion was taken aback to see a weary smile on his face. "You've given me _hope, _Hawke. I had none left after this morning."

She caught his gaze meaningfully. "I can't ask you to wait for me."

"You don't have to ask."

"But..."

"We will be married, won't we?" A glint sparked in his eyes as a measure of his usual optimism returned. "I've _years_ to charm you to the point of utter adoration."

His smugness was infectious, and Hawke found herself smiling back despite herself. "Then I'll be waiting to see what you come up with."

"I forsee a lot of rabbit stew in the near future."

"A _very_ respectable start."

She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers into his and feeling the warm leather press into her skin as he squeezed tightly. As she leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder, Sebastian turned to kiss the top of her hair, only to be nearly headbutted as she bolted upright when a certain thought struck her.

"Hey," she said brightly, oblivious to the near miss, "If you love me, does this mean we can have sex now?"

He laughed, the sound warm and blissfully free of the tension that had accumulated over the day. "No."

"Are you sure? Because I could just go ask the Grand Cleric, she's right over there –"

He pulled her back down as she moved to stand, still smiling. "My vows are between myself and the Maker," he explained patiently, thick accent rolling smoothly over the words. "Please don't harass the clergy."

She sat back down obediently, struck with the sudden urge to catch that smile of his with her mouth. A wicked idea occurred to her, and she tightened her fingers around his. "Sebastian."

"Yes, _mo gràidh_?"

"Kiss me."

"What?" He blinked in disbelief. "_Here? _In the chantry?"

"Yes."

"In front of Andraste," he said, gesturing to the giant statue of the Maker's divine bride.

"In front of Andraste," Hawke confirmed.

He hesitated. "But I am yet a brother of the chantry, and for a sworn brother to flagrantly disobey holy vows in a place of worship is _beyond_ unacceptable. I could never – "

"We'll be married soon enough," she countered. "Unless that declaration you made just now was only for show?"

She smirked as she watched the archer waver, his obvious discomfort with the very idea of such a thing vastly entertaining to his ever-so-patient future bride. He cast glances around the hall, gaze occasionally hovering over Hawke's face as he weighed his options before finally looking one last time up at Andraste's stone face apologetically.

And with that, he pressed a nervous, quick, chaste kiss to the Champion's lips. He moved to pull away, but she wasn't going to let him get off that easily. Her hands caught his face and kept him just where he was, pressing herself tighter against him and opening her mouth against his. He stiffened at first, though Hawke snickered just a bit when his arms came up around her and he sighed in defeat.

As they parted, the disapproving whispers of the sisters were audible, even from across the pews. Their muttering and pointed glares brought a certain kind of cheer to Hawke's heart, especially at her betrothed's mortification.

"_Maker,_ woman," Sebastian breathed, "you will be my ruin."

She beamed proudly. "You were the one who said that the Champion of Kirkwall shouldn't be so easily won."

"Aye, so I did. Though I hadn't considered acts of sacrilege as a particularly common wooing technique."

Snorting, Hawke bit her lip. "Clearly you haven't read Varric's stories. You'd never look at a confessional booth the same way again."

"Sadly, he is not the first to have such ideas."

She laughed in disbelief at the expression on his face. "You must be joking."

"It was a daily duty to check them for amorous couples," he told her, the memory evoking an exasperated sigh. "I became quite accustomed to giving that particular lecture."

At the idea of Sebastian sitting down a pair of randy teenagers and giving them a stern talking-to about the sanctity of the chantry and the values of abstinence, Hawke lost her composure and dissolved into peals of laughter. He tried to shush her, but only ended up with a broad smile across his face.

As she calmed down into hiccups, she felt his callused thumbs wipe the tears of mirth from her eyes gently. She let him, murmuring "too funny" as his fingertips traced across her cheeks.

He chuckled. "In hindsight, perhaps. As are many things." His palms lingered on her shoulders, and she scanned his features, committing every inch to memory.

_This is the face of a man who truly cares for you_, she told herself firmly. _You can try a _little _harder._

A troubled thought crossed his expression, and his smile was colored with something akin to worry.

"What is it?"

He ran a thumb along her jawline. "Do I have the right to seek my own happiness," he asked her quietly, "when I'm about to potentially start a war?"

"Don't lump yourself in with warmongering nobles," she snorted. "The difference is, you don't _want_ to start a fire. And if you do, you intend to put it out. Besides..." She stood, pulling him up to do the same. "I'm Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, dragonslayer, conqueror of the unconquerable qunari and living legend. And I'm going to be standing on your side of things." A cocky grin sprawled lazily across her face.

"Try starting a war against _that._"

* * *

><p>"Good. Ye're back."<p>

The air was grim as Hawke and Sebastian stepped over the threshold of the Bann's manor. MacDougall stood waiting for them, Eoin at his side.

Sebastian felt a sense of dread run down his spine. "Bann. Has something happened?"

"See for yourself." He turned, motioning for them to follow, and Hawke and Sebastian shot one another a quick, worried glance before joining him in the study.

On the desk sat a folded piece of thick parchment, the edge of which was marked with a stamped blot of wax and strip of red and gold ribbon.

The prince would've recognized that particular decoration anywhere.

"From the palace?" he asked.

"Aye," the Bann grunted. "Arrived not an hour ago. Took th' liberty of reading it."

The paper crinkled beneath Sebastian's fingers as he picked it up, reading and re-reading the ornate penmanship that looped across the page.

"What is it?" Hawke prompted, sitting on the desk's surface.

"I've been summoned," he said. "It seems my cousin wishes to speak with me over a quiet, private late breakfast." He handed it to her when she reached for it. "I believe I'm meant to feel honored," he said dryly.

She frowned as she scanned the calligraphy. "Is this meant to be Goran's signature?" she asked, indicating a cluster of clumsy-looking scrawl ending the letter.

"Indeed," the Bann confirmed. "Keep in mind that th' man was a farmer up t' th' coronation. Probably has a whole host of scribes for th' parts of ruling he actually does, if any."

She nodded, placing the summons beside her on the polished mahogany surface. "So."

"So?"

"So what are we thinking?"

"We expected this," Eoin said thoughtfully. "Truthfully, we'd have thought it would come earlier."

"Maybe Loudain needed a little extra time to triple-check his ambush plans." Hawke crossed her arms. "Trying to rule a country from the shadows isn't easy, after all."

MacDougall walked over the the map table, looking at the four markers placed around the countryside. "We still don't know if he caught wind that we're on t' him. Might be biding his time, thinking he's safe."

"Or it could be a setup," the Champion said, sliding off of her perch and joining him. "Either way, going puts us at a disadvantage."

"There is no 'us' to consider," Sebastian corrected from his place by the fire. "The summons called for myself alone."

"But you're not seriously considering actually _going_ by yourself."

He didn't answer, and he saw Hawke's eyes widen. Bracing himself for the onslaught of reprimanding and vivid descriptions of his idiocy, he was surprised by her suspicious quiet.

"What if," she said slowly, "you only _looked_ like you were going alone?"

The Bann scratched his beard absentmindedly. "Th' lady has a good point."

"Aye," Sebastian said carefully, "but she could do nothing to prevent whatever may occur. The east gardens at Arrow's Rest are sacred ground. Violence is considered sacrilege."

"But that also means that _he_ can't kill _you_," she pointed out.

"True." The prince paced, his mind a whirlwind of contingencies and ideas. "What if," he started, "I went along peacefully with whatever Loudain has planned? If it does not immediately threaten my life, we have time with which to turn the tables."

Hawke's eyes lit with understanding. "Let him think he's won," she added, "then turn him on his head."

"A fine line of thought," the Bann said, "except for th' fact that we don't know what he has planned."

"But we _do_," the horsemaster said suddenly, running to the wall of maps and indicating the point that corresponded to the marker on the table closest to the city. "That mark. Just outside the city proper's walls – that's the caravan port. It didn't occur to me earlier because we were looking for main roads, but..." He ran a finger from the merchants' hub outward, along a few smaller paths from city to city. "Starkhaven is just a stop along the trade routes. They stretch all across the north and west."

"There'd have been dozens, if not hundreds of caravans in the area for the royal banquet," Sebastian realized.

"And now that the festivities are ending, no one will think anything of it when they all leave at once," Eoin continued. "The guardsmen wouldn't look twice at a loaded wagon exiting the city."

Mairead placed her palms on the map, gaze moving from one marked city to the next in an uneven trail. "So grease the right palms," she said slowly, "and Sebastian could be in Tevinter or the Anderfels within a fortnight."

"And even if he yet lives through th' journey," the Bann pointed out, "it's long enough for a wedding to take place before he can get back."

Hawke let out a chain of what sounded like qunari curses, and Sebastian studied the city map intently.

"When do the caravans depart?" he asked Eoin, who visibly winced.

"They've already begun, highness. Started this afternoon. Will be completely gone in two days."

"Which is why he had to make his move _now_," the Champion replied. "This is the perfect opportunity – he'd be a fool to pass it up."

"And so we let him think that Sebastian's en route to the cold, distant north – then confront him when he gets overconfident." The Bann's second looked to the others. "But how do we check each caravan without rousing suspicion?"

There was a thoughtful silence. Sebastian, for his part, ransacked his brain for any bylaws they could call into effect or somehow otherwise enforce. Though any use of force not sanctioned by the crown prince would attract palace attention. Who wasn't connected to the palace directly, but had enough social clout and commanding presence to stall the merchants without official orders?

He smiled as the echoes of a certain banshee of a lady wife screaming about the rabbits in her garden rose to the forefront of his mind.

"I think," he said with a chuckle, "I may have an idea."

* * *

><p>Arrow's Rest stood imposing against the cloudless and bright midmorning sky.<p>

"Right," Hawke said quietly, adjusting Sebastian's gloves. "Remember, I'll be right nearby. You just won't see me, is all."

"I know."

"Just go with the flow," she continued. "Don't let on that you know a thing."

"Aye."

"And don't fight back, or you'll – "

"_Hawke._"

She glared. "Don't die."

He raised an eyebrow, smiling at her irritation. "I didn't intend on doing so."

"Good."

"I will play my part," he said, "and allow you to do yours."

"Perfect," she said, still frowning. "Try to faint, if you can. Makes you seem more delicate and fragile."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She still looked thoroughly displeased, and he couldn't help but smile at her expression. He reached one hand around her head, threading his fingers into her hair and pulling her in to kiss her forehead. "The light of the Maker has never failed me," he told her, "and nor have you. I will be safe again soon enough."

Her sigh brushed the bare skin of his throat, and she raised her head.

"Go, then," she instructed with a nod. "I'm right behind you."

He took a few steps toward the main gate, and when he turned to bid her farewell, she had vanished.

He'd forgotten how eerie that was.

Calmly, he handed the summons to a waiting valet, who bowed politely and indicated that the archer should follow him. As they walked through the courtyard, Sebastian noted how nice a day it was for an attempted kidnapping.

And, as predicted, that they were headed for the east gardens.

"I'm sorry, Ser," one guard said as he came upon the stone archway. "No weapons allowed in this section of the grounds."

"Of course," the prince agreed, unhooking his bow and quiver and surrendering them without a qualm. He was quickly searched by a second guard, who nodded the all-clear to his partner.

"You are free to enter," the guard said, "and may reclaim your equipment upon your return."

Sebastian forced a smile at the word 'return.' "Thank you," he said stiffly, strolling through the archway and under a long arbor of trellises creeping with morning glories.

To his surprise, Goran was, in fact, actually waiting for him with a modest spread of pastries and cheeses. He'd been expecting an immediate burlap sack over his head or a gag, so the sight in front of him, clearly meant to be welcoming, only served to rouse his suspicion.

As did the obviously nervous way his cousin was fidgeting with the napkins.

Schooling his face, Sebastian called out to him, startling the shorter man into dropping a croissant.

"Cousin!" he exclaimed, scrambling to stand. "So... so glad you could make it."

"Of course." He smiled warmly, more out of pity than anything else. His cousin so very clearly knew that something was about to take place. "I would not turn down a chance to speak with you. We hardly got the chance at the banquet, regrettably."

"I agree." Goran's hand trembled as he gestured to the seat opposite his. "Please, sit."

"Thank you for your hospitality."

"O-Oh, you needn't thank me. Not at all."

An awkward silence befell the two men, the chirping of songbirds occasionally carried over the breeze.

"So," Sebastian began, clearing his throat. "What is it you wished to discuss?"

His cousin nearly jumped in his seat, the faint sheen of sweat beginning to shimmer across his wide forehead. "I... just wanted to reminisce, I suppose. Talk about old times?"

"I see. Nostalgia upon our reunion, then?"

"Yes, that's it."

Another silence passed over them, punctuated by a soft _thunk_ of something landing in the grass beside the table. Upon further inspection, the archer saw a swath of white satin sitting on the ground, wrapped tightly around its contents.

"Yours?" he asked Goran, who enthusiastically shook his head.

Excusing himself, Sebastian stood and walked the two steps to the object, unfurling it and rolling something heavy and cold into his hand.

A dagger, he quickly realized.

He immediately turned his sight up to the windows that looked out over the gardens, but they were all conspicuously shut up tight, no sign of the conspirator to be seen. But in his haste to catch Loudain's lackey, Sebastian had forgotten the position of what he was holding.

Until he heard a stifled yelp and felt something warm running down his fingers.

When he snapped back forward, his stomach lurched. Goran had run over to him and shoved the palm of his hand over the blade, slicing it open and spilling bright red blood over his royal clothes, the white satin...

...and the sacrosanct ground.

This was their plan, he realized. Not to ship him off – to label him a traitor to crown and country.

"Goran," he started, dropping the weapon, "what have you..."

He trailed off as their eyes met. His cousin clutched at his wounded hand, eyes wide not in pain, but in fear. His was an expression of abject terror.

_Help me_, that look said.

A light went off in the back of Sebastian's mind. Why his simple, country farmer of a cousin had gone along with all of this. Why anyone would consent to being a puppet.

"Cousin," he said slowly, "what are they holding over you?"

The royal circlet tilted askew as the crown prince began to shake violently. "Guards!" he called, voice cracking. "To my side, quickly! _Guards!"_

A quartet of armed soldiers rushed to the scene in seconds, accompanied by a figure in dark blue velvet.

_Bann Loudain._

The Bann made a grand spectacle of pushing his way forward, melodramatic outrage exploding from him like a firework at the sight of the blood on Sebastian's hands.

"To bring a weapon to a meeting with the Crown Prince, on sacred ground! It is sacrilege, and it is blatant conspiracy!"

He stalked over to the archer, who made no move to run, nor wavered from eye contact. The shadow ruler glared hotly at the rightful prince, sneering and towering over him with theatrical fury.

"Take this treacherous wretch away," Loudain spat, and as Sebastian allowed himself to be carted off, he managed one last glimpse of Goran.

He was standing there and watching him go like a frightened, bleeding rabbit.

* * *

><p>"This way, your highness."<p>

The figure, cloaked and hooded in navy blue, bowed and extended his arm in the direction of the hallway. Goran nodded, glancing down at the fresh bandage covering his hand. As he was escorted to his rooms, he adjusted his crown and said not a word, only following the servant bearing Loudain's sigil.

Upon entering the royal chambers, he curiously watched Loudain's man lock the door behind them, close the curtains and stoke the fire. His stare did not go unnoticed.

"May I be of assistance, sire?" came a smoky, harsh voice.

Embarrassed, Goran waved his uninjured hand. "No, no! I was just..." He scratched his head sheepishly. "You're on the short side for a guard, aren't you?"

In a flash, the servant closed the distance between them, pressing one gloved hand to cover his mouth and pulling back the velvet hood with the other. His eyes widened to see a messily-bound wave of reddish curls and a familiar face.

"I'm Mairead Hawke," she said gruffly. "I'm here to rescue you."


	14. Lioness Rampant

**A/N: **I'M BACK. FROM OUTER SPACE.

Actually, more like the black hole that is a trip to the States and then coming back right into the start of a new school term. Teaching full-time sure is a step up, let me tell you. Readjusting to Japan and then going back to work has sucked out all of my energy for the past month.

OH ALSO DID YOU KNOW THAT GETTING A DRIVER'S LICENSE HERE IS LIKE PULLING TEETH

_Sigh._

Anyway, hoping to be back on track with the updates soon. For now, it's just good to be writing _something_.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>The hills of Blythefeld rolled behind the group, covered in thick patches of forestation with no discernible pattern and a winding, unwieldy path between them. Hawke leaned against a massive maple in the leafy, shifting shade on one particular tree-covered hilltop and kept an eye on the tiny farm below.<p>

Her information had been correct, she mused as her eyes fell along a meticulously-tended series of beehives in a fenced yard. Though considering her source, she shouldn't have been surprised.

"_I'm Mairead Hawke. I'm here to rescue you."_

_Goran stared at her in disbelief as she lowered her hand. "The Champion? But... your voice..."_

"_Special powder and a 'borrowed' uniform," she explained in gravelly tones. "We don't have much time. I saw what happened in the gardens, and I caught what Sebastian said right before he was taken."_

_He paled, sinking exhaustedly into an overstuffed couch in front of the fireplace. "You don't understand. Loudain has men surrounding her every minute of every day, and the second I disobey – "_

"_Blythefeld, right? In farm country."_

_His head snapped up in alarm. "How did you know?"_

"_He left tracks." Hawke squatted in front of him, blocking the firelight. "And we will go make sure she is safe," she said firmly, "and get her away from him, if you will only tell us who 'she' is."_

"_But Loudain – "_

"_He sent a squad. We have a small army." At his hesitation, she squeezed his shoulder. "We need a _name_, Goran."_

_He buried his head in his hands for a few long moments._

"_Sophie," he finally said quietly. "She keeps bees in the western fields." He looked up at the Champion pleadingly. "My lover, Sophie MacHugh."_

And so here she was, half a day's ride from the main bulk of the city with a company of the Bann's men...

…and a certain Antivan elf who didn't know how to keep his nose out of her business.

She smirked as she remembered saddling up Gryphon, only to see Zevran stroll into the barn, casually holding up Sebastian's bow.

"I happened upon this lovely piece as I was getting to... _intimately_ know one of the royal guardsmen. And I could not help but recognize it as belonging to your _inamorata_, so am I correct in assuming he finds himself in something of a, shall we say, situation?"

When she'd asked if he didn't have ambassador-like things to do, he'd tried to smile innocently.

"As a future member of the royal family, is it not your duty to ensure that ambassadors are entertained? And I am so very, _very_ bored, _princesa._" He sighed theatrically. "There are only so many times in a day a man can change clothes, fabulous though they may be."

She noted then that he was in his leathers, having opted for them over the frills and silks he'd worn of late. And he showed no intention of leaving.

"I always liked your armor better anyway."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "Ah, I see you favor function over form. How very practical."

"No," she said, smirking as she fastened one saddlebag closed. "Shows more skin."

He gestured to the small expanse of thigh his armor revealed, pulling aside the skirted leather sections invitingly. "My dear, if you want to see more, you have but to _ask_ – "

She pointed to the stablemaster, cutting him off before he could go any further. "Just go see about a horse."

"As you wish, _princesa."_

And now here they were, ankle-deep in moss and tree bark in the countryside.

Hawke heard the shuffle of leaves as well-trained feet made their way to her side in the undergrowth.

"I count three out in the open," she said as she scratched one shoulder against the rough bark behind it.

"I did as well," Zevran agreed as he crouched down. "Though there may be others within the walls."

"And we can't just go take them out. They might kill her if she's still alive."

He turned up to her, arching one delicate eyebrow. "You think your man Loudain would bluff so?"

"No," she admitted, "especially not when he's so close to his goals. But we can't take the risk until we see proof that she's alive."

He sighed, sitting at the base of the tree across from her. "Ours is a waiting game, then." Stretching languidly, he smirked. "Well, it is no matter. I am sure we can think of an... _interesting_ way to pass the time."

Hawke snorted. "I'm about to be _married, _you know. Respectable and all that."

"Of course, _princesa._ But that does not keep you from regaling me with naughty stories, no?"

Shaking her head, she couldn't help but smile. The Antivan's presence made this all more bearable, and she was glad for his company, even if Sebastian might make a face when she told him Zevran's part in the plan later. A thought occurred to her, and she tilted her head as she folded her arms over her chest.

"I don't know about stories," she said, "but if you want something that might be interesting..."

His eyes brightened a bit as he draped his arms over his knees. "By all means."

"Back then, in Kirkwall, you could've convinced me to leave the city behind and run away with you."

He lifted his chin at that, regarding her curiously. "Oh? Do explain."

"Well, I'd just come twice – "

"Three times," he corrected, and she took a mental tally.

"Oh, you're right," she agreed. "Three. Anyway, I was a wreck in those days." She frowned, flicking a stray leaf from her arm. "I felt like I'd lost everything. The person I loved, a good friend, my mother and brother to death, my sister to the Circle. Now I had this title I never wanted and all the responsibilities to match. And then there you were, living the life I was used to. Going from day to day where your feet or fancy took you, none of the obligations... It would have been so _easy _to slip back in and feel that way again."

"And now?" His honey-gold eyes glittered with interest. "Could you be so easily swayed?"

"Nah," she offered with a lazy half-smile. "I think I'm serious about that moron of a prince and his damned city." She snickered. "Besides, from what I've seen so far, I'm pretty sure that I'll do plenty of fighting as a princess of Starkhaven."

Zevran stood, brushing the dirt and leaf litter from his armor. "Then I shall not tempt you." He tapped a finger to his lips thoughtfully, smirking wickedly. "Your bride-to-be, however..."

Hawke raised her hands in enthusiastic surrender. "Tempt him all you want," she replied, "_please._ If you can make that happen with me involved, I swear on Andraste's Nipples of Righteousness that _I will knight you_."

He chuckled at that. "Truly? Ah, perhaps I shall extend my impersonation of a certain ambassador, then."

"I'd be happy to have you." As he opened his mouth to point out the innuendo, she held up a hand to silence him. "You know what I mean."

"Of course, _princesa._"

They stared down at the house, watching one of Loudain's men check the perimeter.

"Zevran?" Mairead called quietly.

"Mm?"

She smiled at him, warm and from the bottom of her heart. "Thank you for being here. Really."

For the briefest of moments, the assassin seemed almost _flustered_ by her words, but quickly regained his usual composure with a sigh and a placid smile.

"Ah, how nice it is to be appreciated!" Something from the house below caught his eye, and he turned. "And while I would like nothing more than to hear in detail how very marvelous I am, it seems we have other matters to attend to."

Hawke leaned around to follow his line of sight, watching as a skinny waif of a young woman nervously ducked out the back door to tend to her bees.

"Looks like Sophie's still alive after all," she murmured, noting a figure observing his charge from the door.

"And she has houseguests," Zevran added. "How nice."

"We need them out if we're to get her to safety," Hawke said as she turned to glance at her co-conspirator. "Any ideas?"

He smirked.

"I cannot help but wonder if Starkhaven bees are as irritable as their Antivan cousins."

* * *

><p>"...and then made off with my great-grandfather's tapestry of a unicorn!"<p>

The guardsmen at Starkhaven's merchant caravan gate shot nervous glances at one another as Helena Lesley fussed loudly, angrily, and _very_ enthusiastically in their general direction. The stately brunette stood with her hands on her hips as she continued her verbal tirade, detailing every item from her estate that an imaginary trader had bought from her with false currency.

Bann MacDougall and Eoin watched from a distance, marveling at her ability to intimidate the city's finest. She'd been at it for nearly half an hour, browbeating the guardsmen with her indignant rage.

"She's creative, I'll give her that," the Bann muttered as she raised her voice an octave when it came to her heirloom candlesticks. "Though I can't help but feel a mite sorry for th' poor sods."

"Agreed," Eoin replied, watching more guards arrive in a desperate attempt to placate her growing fury. "I'm just glad she's on our side." He chuckled. "And I have a newfound appreciation for Lord Lesley."

MacDougall snorted. "And ye thought _my_ wife was difficult."

They winced and cringed in sympathy from their vantage point for some time until the captain himself appeared, pleading with the noble-born hurricane and attempting to find out precisely what she wanted them to do.

Her face immediately transformed into a benevolent smile with all the grace and beauty of a lily unfolding its petals, eliciting a shiver from all present. As she spoke, they rapidly snapped to attention, then responded just as quickly to orders from their leader. Guards were dispatched to every departing wagon, and apparently satisfied for the moment, Helena turned on her heel and strode toward the men who had put her up to the task.

"They'll examine every single one before they're cleared to leave, and my men are allowed to do the same," she explained casually, not a hint of her earlier rampage in her demeanor. "You're free to go in with yours as well."

"Exactly th' thing we need," the Bann acknowledged, bowing slightly. "Our thanks, lady."

She shrugged delicately. "Sebastian helped my husband rid my gardens of rabbits," she said. "Besides, it's good to remind the guardsmen once in a while how to treat a lady."

"Abject terror?" Eoin suggested before he could stop himself.

To his relief, she beamed proudly.

"Precisely."

* * *

><p>The tiny, barred windows of the prison afforded Sebastian little by way of a view, but at least it lit the stone and barriers within well enough.<p>

He was in an otherwise empty block, the rough cot and basin the only objects in his particular cell. Each was separated by a wall of bars, the doors set with bolts and locks. And while he was glad for the solitude, the quiet was something he had trouble adjusting to. Perhaps from the years in Kirkwall or even on the journey thus far, he hadn't had a day's silence in a very, _very_ long time.

It was unsettling.

He chose to sit on his cot, back to the wall, legs crossed and hands folded calmly in his lap. Nonthreatening, contemplative, and patient. He hadn't even tried to speak with the sentries, but to his relief, they wore Starkhaven's guard uniform and not Loudain's. It was the only promising thing he could observe; he'd come there with a burlap sack pulled over his head, only removed as he was shoved into his containment. Which, he mused as his gaze traveled across the stretch of stone, could have been anywhere. All he knew was that it was still bright daylight, so he couldn't have been too far from the city proper. Prudent, as Loudain would need to be close to the outer walls in order to smuggle him onto a merchant caravan unseen.

The princeling briefly wondered what Hawke was doing at that particular moment. Likely setting up some sort of barricade or securing alternate routes from the city. She excelled at doing such things while staying beneath notice – a skill that had served her well in a place as filled with corruption and shady elements as the former Tevinter slaveyard.

The sound of a heavy door clacking and creaking open caught his attention, and Sebastian lifted his head from the wall to glimpse the newcomer. Both sentries beside his door snapped to attention, indicating that his visitor was a high-ranking official or nobleman.

_Loudain?_

He flexed his fingers within his archer's gloves, but maintained his calm as the footsteps drew closer. A third sentry ran forward with an upholstered stool, placing it in front of his cell door. Following close behind was the authority in question, who dismissed all three guards rather awkwardly and took his seat.

"Goran?"

His cousin waited until the trio had disappeared behind a bracketed door before slumping against one of the stool's armrests. "Cousin," he greeted wearily, waving a heavily-bandaged hand.

The two men sat in silence for a while, Goran shifting frequently and often darting his gaze up to Sebastian's to see if the archer was still staring at him.

He always was.

Hanging his head, the crown prince sighed. "I'm so sorry, Sebastian."

"I understand." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Your hand was forced, I imagine." The particular irony of those words wasn't lost on his companion, who nodded feebly.

"You've no idea what that man's capable of," he breathed. "I didn't want to. I didn't want any of this. Marrying Cora, framing you, _ruling, _or rather, pretending to_..._" He lifted his hand to tug the royal circlet from his head, running a hand through his mousy brown curls and idly thumbing the sculpted metal in the other. "I just wanted to be left in peace."

"Yet here we are," Sebastian said dryly, gesturing to his cell. "The man who would be prince behind bars, and the reluctant monarch in a prison of his own."

"Even if I pardoned you," Goran said ruefully, "Loudain would try something else. He always does."

Another quiet passed over them, Sebastian studying his weary cousin carefully from his vantage point across the room. He outright _acknowledged_ his position as a puppet, even accepting it against his will. But why?

"Cousin," he pried softly, "why do you give in to him?"

The shorter man took in a deep, slow breath as he ran his fingers along the coronet of Starkhaven's princes. "You asked me that in the garden, did you not?"

"And I received no answer."

When Goran fell silent, each passing second was a thorn digging into Sebastian's patience, and it wasn't long before he'd had enough. He strode angrily over to the bars of the cell door, stalking along the side closest to the crown prince like a caged animal.

"My entire family was _murdered_," he barked, eliciting a visible flinch from his cousin, "to put you on the throne! I deserve an answer, as do the souls of my parents and brothers!" He glared at Goran, who was unable to meet his eyes. "If you will not explain yourself," he issued, "I will hold you as accountable for their deaths as the ones who put coin in the assassins' hands."

At that, Goran bolted to his feet. "I had nothing to do with their deaths!"

"And yet you wear my father's crown and dance to the strings of the man who would see the Vael line ended with the death of your own kin! To what ends?"

Exhausted and broken, Goran collapsed back into his seat. "I didn't have a choice. At least with Lady Harimann, I could turn her away for a time."

At the mention of Harimann's name, Sebastian's frustration subsided somewhat. "She was the first to approach you."

Goran nodded. "Years ago. She showed up one day, promising me all sorts of things if I would go along with her plans. I refused right away, moved to another province. But she found me again, and this time, her promises were like that of a crazed woman. Offered me the crown, offered me a bride, offered me things that were... not of this earth. _Hounded _me, sent messenger after messenger and started putting things in place in the court, appearing in my dreams, trying to pull me in." He shuddered at the memory. "There was something not _right_ in her eyes those days. And when she disappeared, I finally thought I was free." His jaw tightened.

"That's when Loudain appeared."

Sebastian saw the cloud around the puppet prince darken.

"He was calmer than Lady Harimann, but so much worse." He turned tired eyes up to the imprisoned archer, heavy circles beneath them from lack of sleep. "He wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, either. Except that _he_ decided to do something about it." Goran dragged his hands down the length of his face, letting them fall limply into his lap. "I had a lover."

_There_ it was. It was as though a lock in Sebastian's mind had popped open after gentle tugging followed by relentless and enthusiastic prying. This was the reason, the unraveling thread, the very _lifeblood_ of this entire coup.

"He threatened her to ensure your compliance," he said, a statement rather than a question. The fury left his voice as he reclined against the bars. "An act of a coward."

"But it left me with no choice. I couldn't fight him in the court, nor his men in battle." Goran drew a deep, shaky breath as he interlocked his fingers. "I don't even know whether she lives or..."

Sympathy pricked at Sebastian's conscience as his cousin trailed off, unwilling to speak the worst aloud. "Have faith," he reassured him, "and courage. Men such as Loudain do not go unnoticed by the Maker, nor by His virtuous here on the earth."

For a brief moment, a weak smile flickered across Goran's face. "The Champion said the same thing, though she was a fair bit less... _eloquent_."

The former chantryman's spirits lifted a bit at the mention of Hawke. "She found you, then?"

The crown prince nodded. "Right after you were taken. She impersonated one of Loudain's men and made sure we were alone, then promised to keep Sophie safe from the Bann before disappearing." He ducked his head. "She, ah, knows some creative curses."

Sebastian chuckled, leaning his head back and smiling up at the ceiling. "Aye, one well-honed skill of many."

"Indeed, I hadn't expected her to be so..." He struggled for words. "Human. Though truthfully, I hadn't been expecting her at all."

_Because she invited herself along when I intended to come alone,_ Sebastian mused. And her stubbornness was something he would forever be grateful for, as the path it had led to had taken a turn he never could have anticipated, nor hoped for.

"Though I imagine you were surprised to see _me_ at the banquet to begin with," he said aloud, but at Goran's telling silence, he straightened up to look at his cousin properly.

"You," he realized. "_You _were the one who sent the invitation. You _wanted_ me here?"

Goran shifted uncomfortably. "I thought that if you came back..."

"You would be relieved of your burden," Sebastian finished for him. "And you did so without Loudain's knowledge?"

"Slipped it in with everything else getting sent out one morning. Though all I knew was 'Kirkwall Chantry,' so all I could do was hope it found you. And it did." He rubbed his thumbs together. "When I heard that you had returned, it was the first time in years I'd thought that perhaps the Maker hadn't abandoned me after all."

Sebastian made his way back to his cot, sitting down gently. "Perhaps it was the Divine hand guiding me here."

"As it guided you to the Champion?"

He smiled despite himself. "I have often wondered that myself."

Weariness seeped into the smile Goran offered in return. "I envy you," he said slowly. "You will marry the woman you love; not many in the royal family have such a luxury."

The archer was mildly tempted to point out that it was one-sided for whatever comfort it might have given his unfortunate cousin, but instead took it for what it was. "I assure you," he said solemnly, "the life she and I share will not be an easy one, should I claim my birthright."

"But you will spend it _together_," Goran insisted, "and that is what I envy." He leaned back, sighing. "She is quite something else." With a small chuckle, he tilted his head. "How does one even ask for the hand of such a frightening woman?"

Blinking in surprise, Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. After a moment, he scratched his head sheepishly. "I... ah, I didn't. I suppose it simply happened through a series of otherwise trivial events."

Curious, his cousin leaned forward. "So you never proposed, and she never accepted? _Maker_, man! You were the Menace of Arrow's Rest, the Seducer of Starkhaven – I'd have thought you, of all people, would be able to come up with a proposal to put all other men to shame!"

Chuckling, Sebastian held up a hand to stop him. "Circumstances as they are, I don't think it would be appropriate to do so now."

"If you insist. Though..." He looked out the window at the glimpse of blue sky. "If I do escape the throne, the first thing I will do is ask Sophie to be my wife, if she'll have me after all I've put her through."

Sebastian smiled at that, only slightly surprised to find himself openly wishing his cousin happiness. Love was an oddly powerful thing, one that he in his youth had never thought he would be subject to. Yet here he was, not only admittedly smitten, but engaged to the one who controlled him so.

As he thought on it, he realized that he could pinpoint precise moments where Hawke had begun to draw a line into his heart, like an archer lining up a mark. When she'd killed the Flint Company mercenaries and helped to avenge his family when he could not, she had pulled an arrow from the quiver. Nocking that arrow was handing him his grandfather's bow, and the way her face had lit up when he explained its significance to his family.

She'd pulled the bowstring taut when she came to him for comfort as the Arishok stripped her bare, and the hours of late-night conversation beneath the Chantry stairs had only cemented whatever bond they'd established in their travels together. She'd leveled her aim at him, completely unawares, with the joy she took in his homeland.

And this entire trip had been like a successive volley of those same pointed bolts digging into him relentlessly until he gave in and fell at her feet.

He would consider himself _useless_ as a man, he mused, if he didn't at least make some small, meaningful gesture.

"Perhaps I should follow your good example," he mused aloud, "and remind my future bride of my well-earned reputation."

As Goran laughed, some of the lines seemed to briefly disappear from his face, returning him to the young man from Sebastian's memory.

"And I hope I am there to see it."

"You may well be," Sebastian told him, "as Hawke is one of the people responsible for my recovery at the caravan gates."

Confused, Goran frowned. "The caravan gates?"

"Aye," Sebastian confirmed, folding his hands on his lap. "By now, there are barricades into and out of the city. I've only to bide my time – when the Bann attempts to move me, I will be caught."

There was silence as Goran stood, suddenly pale. "Wait, you don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"You're not to be moved – you're to be _executed._"

Sebastian leapt to his feet, blood in his veins like ice. "Executed?"

"For treason and attempted regicide." Goran came up to the bars of his cell, looking panicked. "You're in Hangman's End."

World spinning, the rightful prince pressed a hand to his forehead. Hangman's End was the prison reserved for traitors, spies, and heretics – those whose crimes rarely merited trial. They had gravely miscalculated Loudain's plan.

"Maker," he exhaled. "We thought– This changes everything. I have far less time than I thought."

"And even less than you know," Goran added, face grim.

A cold stone rolled in Sebastian's stomach. That expression didn't bode well. "Goran?"

"Cousin," he said gravely, "you're set to be hanged _tomorrow_."

* * *

><p>The shorter of the two guards in Sophie's house was too busy scratching a particularly insistent spot under his bristly moustache to notice the first bee.<p>

Humming nonchalantly, the honey-making insect went absentmindedly about his business inside the main house, hovering over a collection of wildflowers in a vase atop one table before zigzagging across the room. As he got a bit too close to the taller, lankier guardsman, he was swatted but otherwise unharmed and free to go about his lazy exploration.

"Damned pests," the guard muttered. "I _hate_ bees."

That first worker bee was soon joined by a second. A third. Three turned into a dozen, and that dozen turned into a hundred. Before long, the room was swarming with intrusive but otherwise amiable bumblers.

"What in seven hells is going on here?" The taller guard waved frantically, trying to keep the hundreds upon hundreds of pollen-gatherers out of his face.

Worry creasing her delicate face, Sophie raised her hands as if to stop him, but hesitated. "It's all right," she pleaded. "They're harmless, really!"

"They're _bees_, woman!"

Soon, the buzzing had grown to a near-deafening level, and the air was thick with a chorus of humming insects with no regard for personal space. They bumped into everything in their path, cabinets and pots and walls, and while a very puzzled Sophie seemed fine in the presence of so many of her winged companions, the men struggled to maintain any semblance of calm. The lanky guardsman by the table cursed and struck wildly, while his mustachioed counterpart sat with tight lips as button-sized workers repeatedly bonked against their faces and hands.

The latter reached his last straw when one bee had the unfortunate circumstance of tumbling into his ear. Screaming, he leapt to his feet and burst out the front door, shortly followed by his comrade, who fell to the ground and rolled desperately in the grass in an effort to rid himself of the intruders.

"Andraste preserve us," he cried. "_I'm covered in bees!_"

"Oh! So you are."

He paused to stare up at the new voice, managing to catch a glimpse of a woman's smirking face and red woven armor from above him before his world went black.

* * *

><p>As MacDougall's men bound Loudain's lackeys, Hawke shook loose the oblivious little soldiers remaining in the cheesecloth that she and the others had been using to catch them. Luckily, their lunch had been wrapped in the useful mesh, and the bees seemed rather accustomed to having humans traipsing about through their flower fields.<p>

"Well," she said, "that's everyone." Five men clad in black and navy sat tied and gagged in the back of a cart, their horses tethered and waiting. "Zevran?"

The elf emerged from the house, shooing out a few bees delicately. "The house is empty. They did not think it would take more than two grown men to subdue her should she resist, I suppose." He lifted his chin, something over Hawke's shoulder catching his eye. "Speaking of whom..."

Hawke turned to follow his line of sight, only to see an apron-clad figure bolting across the open field as far as her tiny feet would carry her. She squinted. "Is that...?"

"It seems our swashbuckling heroism may have been _slightly_ misunderstood," he offered, folding his arms over his chest with a smirk. "You may wish to explain that to our fleeing friend."

Groaning, the Champion took up after her, kicking up puffy clouds of flower petals and pollen in her wake. Sophie might have been running for her life, but Hawke owned a Mabari who liked to take off chasing rats. Nothing gives you speed and stamina like frequently racing your dog to a sewer in order to prevent a half-digested rodent from being vomited up onto your carpet later.

"Sophie?" she called as she ran. "Sophie MacHugh?"

"Don't know that name!" came the breathless reply.

As they emerged from a waist-high carpet of tall grasses, Hawke had closed the distance between them to reach out and grab Sophie's shoulder, spinning her to make eye contact. She was so focused on stopping the woman in front of her that she didn't see the other hand come up until it was too late. A flat palm connected with her face, and Hawke settled her jaw quickly before blinking back the sting and getting a better grasp on her struggling charge.

_Well_, she thought, _at least she's got some fight in her._

"Hold on," she said, grip on both arms tight. "We're here to help – Goran sent us."

"You lie," the skinny beekeeper spat, glaring. "You could be more of Loudain's men here to trick me, or working for some other slimy courtier! Goran would never risk– "

"He said that you might not believe me," Hawke interrupted, keeping her voice even and firm. "He told me to ask you about that night the last spring you two were together, when you saw the falling star. About the tree, and the picnic, and the cow."

Frowning, but no longer struggling, Sophie knotted her brow. "The _what?_"

"The cow," Hawke repeated slowly. "Remember the cow, Sophie?"

After a moment, recognition dawned brightly on the mousy woman's face, and her hands flew to her mouth. "The cow," she exclaimed, "the one that knocked the lantern over and nearly set us both on fire!" Tears welled up in her eyes, and the Champion released her from the vicegrip. "Maker," she choked out, "he really did send you."

Hawke extended her hand. "Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall."

Still trembling, Sophie took it. "Sophie MacHugh."

"Nice to meet you." She tugged her back in the direction of the homestead, where the group waited. "Come," she prompted as they picked up speed, "we need to move. When those men don't report in, more will come with reinforcements. Grab a bag if you need to, but we haven't got much time."

They separated as Sophie ran into the house to quickly pack and Hawke gave the orders to ready the horses. True to her word, not more than a few minutes had passed before the beekeeper emerged with a single stuffed case, which was tossed into the cart alongside the captured guards.

Hawke smirked a bit as Sophie made sure the luggage hit a few of them in the face.

"Can you ride," she asked, and at the shake of Sophie's head, Hawke pulled her up onto one of the Loudain horses beside her, handing the reins to one of MacDougall's men. "Get comfortable," she advised as the company started to move, "we're headed back to the city proper."

Sophie shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a balance while adjusting her pooling skirts. "Isn't that unwise?"

As they entered a tree-shaded portion of the road, Hawke enjoyed the cool relief from the bright sun in the open fields. "We'll be going to Bann MacDougall's estate. He's on our side. Your side."

"And this man," Sophie asked timidly, but with hope edging her voice, "he can end all this? Let Goran come home?"

"If all goes according to plan," Hawke answered. "Sebastian Vael has returned to Starkhaven."

The other woman's face lit up. "Then, if the rightful prince has returned..."

"Now we just have to deal with Loudain." She flashed a grin. "And now that we've taken his leverage away, his life's going to get a hell of a lot harder."

As a broad smile beamed out from Sophie's face, Hawke ventured even further. "If you want, you can be there when we break it to Cora that she won't be becoming princess."

"Ooh," Sophie seethed, "I'd love to see her try to stay superior and condescending as that crown slips right out of her fingers!" It may have elicited a laugh from Hawke and several of the others, but a frown immediately crossed her face. "Then... won't she turn to Sebastian?"

"Such would seem the natural course for a woman of her ambitions," Zevran piped up nonchalantly, "but alas, the ever-so-charming prince is already spoken for."

Interested, Sophie turned to him. "Who would be brave enough to face Loudain?"

"Who, indeed?" The Antivan cleared his throat pointedly.

"_You_?" she blurted in disbelief, twisting to face Hawke. "The Champion of Kirkwall herself is settling in Starkhaven?"

"I kind of like it here," Hawke mused offhandedly. "One silver lining of throwing a coup is that you get all the worst bits of a place over with at once."

Sophie snickered at that, and was sworn to a mock vow of confidentiality as Zevran spent the rest of the trek spinning racy, wildly exaggerated tales of his exploits. Hawke laughed so hard that she thought her sides would split, and the elf's ridiculously over-sexualized stories were a welcome relief from the weight they all bore.

They rode through the night, and every time she caught Zevran's eyes, Hawke gave him a grateful smile. Sebastian would be waiting for them at the Bann's estate by now, and the sooner she saw him safe and well, the sooner she could relax. She wanted to touch him, to feel him solid in front of her again.

For a moment, the smell of doeskin leather and rabbit's fur filled her senses, and warmth blossomed in her fingertips.

_Maker,_ she swore with a sigh. If she actually fell in love with that obnoxious, chant-spouting, face-like-the-morning-sun do-gooder, her friends would never let her hear the end of it.


	15. Mistakes Made in Haste

**A/N: **Time for an update!

It's November, 80 degrees, and I just went kayaking in a mangrove forest in a T-shirt and shorts this weekend.

I love this island.

Enjoy the chapter! SUSPENSE, YO.

* * *

><p>Hawke practically stormed down the hallways of the Bann's city manor, pulling on pieces of her armor as she went, the maids jogging to keep up and pressing them into her waiting hands.<p>

When she'd finally arrived back in the city the previous night, she'd been so exhausted that she'd nearly fallen off of her horse. She'd stumbled into bed without thinking, and woken in the morning to a smug blonde, tattooed, and _fully nude_ Antivan elf in the sheets next to her.

Before he could finish explaining that the bed _he_ had been given wasn't nearly soft and warm enough for his liking and did she know she talked in her sleep?, she had thrown a pillow at his smirking face and was headed out the door.

Five minutes later, she was staring down the Bann and Eoin in their makeshift war room, noting the distinct lack of a certain key person's presence.

"Where is Sebastian?"

* * *

><p>Morning did not come easily for the rightful prince.<p>

Nor had sleep, but he had at least managed to drift off for a few brief hours before being woken by the scuffling change of sentries. Anxiety over the radical shift in situation, so far away from their carefully planned false surrender and subsequent rescue, had almost painfully knotted his innards.

Prayer had only done so much to soothe him when his mind was busy running over the advantages he had at his disposal and his limited knowledge of the prison. By now, Hawke and the Bann had most certainly realized that their initial assumptions had been wrong and were working to find him anew, but Maker only knew how much time they had left. No, they couldn't be counted among his assets; Sebastian was going to have to act entirely on his own this time.

The thought weighed on him, making his entire body heavy as though his very bones were lead, while simultaneously causing the soles of his feet to itch for action, and he fought the urge to pace furiously about his cell in an effort to calm himself.

He had always had Hawke, who seemed to be blessed by Andraste herself when it came to preserving her own life and those of her comrades. He couldn't even begin to count the number of times he had witnessed her escape from impossible odds or dire straits by way of precise skill or, at times, sheer luck.

Fortunately for him, however, being held in a prison built for short-term stays had its advantages. He had spent every waking hour studying the patrol patterns and layout of the grounds, as well as gleaning what he could about the inner workings of the dungeon itself. Narrow corridors forced sentries in large numbers to bottleneck, and many of the doors could be barred from either side. Without the threat of lifelong prisoners having time to plot their escapes, there had been no precautions designed into the structure to deny them avenues to do so. There were at least three lower roofs within jumping distance, and the door hinges were too small to withstand massive force.

Given a few more hours, he thought frantically, there was a chance he could devise _something,_ if nothing else to get him out of containment and into the halls. Preferably armed as well.

The sunlight glinted off of his white armor as he paced, bouncing bright flashes along the dingy stone walls. He was so wrapped up in his churning thoughts and half-formed ideas that he nearly jumped in his skin when the door latch to his cell block clicked out of place, and the heavy wood swung wide.

Sebastian tried to count the footsteps as they approached. Four, no, five men. The clink of armor echoed off of the rough walls, scabbards clanging against metal-clad thighs.

Polished metal over a black-thatched navy tartan.

As Bann Horace Loudain himself stopped in front of the cell bars, flanked by his personal guards on either side, the prince had to willfully force his fists to unclench. With Goran - and therefore the entire city - bound up neatly in puppetstrings, there was no reason for the Bann to personally see to his prisoner. Except, of course, to gloat. And from the look on his face, that was exactly what he had come here to do.

"Sebastian Vael," he greeted, mouth clenched in a tight-lipped smile. "What an unfortunate turn of events this is."

"My coming here, you mean," Sebastian offered coolly, arms folded, "and becoming a thorn in your soon-to-be-royal backside?"

Loudain didn't so much as flinch. "Strong accusations, little lordship. Worthless, coming from a traitor who brazenly attempted regicide. Against his own kin, no less!" The barest trace of a smirk curled the corners of his lips. "The Maker could never let one whose sins were so great become prince."

"Do not speak of the Maker," Sebastian snapped, "as you poison Starkhaven, His city, with your manipulation and greed!"

"Oh?" The Bann leaned in closer. "And was it not greed, little lordship, that brought you back to claim your father's crown?"

"Not greed," the archer issued in a low voice, wrapping gloved fingers around an iron bar angrily. "Nor avarice, nor ambition." He took a long, deep breath to calm his temper. If he gave in, became the aggressor, then Loudain won. Which may have been precisely what the Bann intended with the pious-sounding words that he must have _known_ would prick Sebastian like stinging nettles.

"I lived in shame in Kirkwall," he said slowly, carefully. "At first, it was the shame brought on by my own behavior. But as I grew into a _man_, lost my entire family and left Starkhaven without its prince, it became the shame of abandoning my people. It pains me to know that my guilt was warranted - I have seen how they have suffered in my absence." He narrowed his eyes at Loudain, releasing the bars and straightening his posture. "And I have exposed them to the likes of your kind_._"

"_My _kind?" Feigning insult, the Bann spread his hands. "Likes of _me?_ Have I not dedicated my life to serving the people of Starkhaven?"

"You serve only yourself, Bann Loudain."

His words went ignored. "And have I not apprehended the heinous traitor who made an attempt on our beloved prince's life?" He turned to one of his men on the left, clucking his tongue. "Is the job of a hero so thankless?"

Despite himself, Sebastian smiled dryly. "_Hero_, is it? Is that what they call a man who slays a deer and claims that it was a dragon?" Calmly, he folded his arms across his chest. "The people of Starkhaven will hear of this."

"That they will, I assure you." Loudain stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. "How the wild son of the late Prince Thomas, Maker rest him, committed acts of violence and sacrilege and treason. It was Prince Goran's unfortunate, but necessary, duty to send such a man to the Maker for His judgment."

"Your lies will not stand."

"How many lies do you think become truths with no one to contradict them?"

There was a tense silence between them then, Loudain patiently waiting as fire burned in Sebastian's belly. Andraste help him, he wanted nothing more at that moment than to reach through the bars and strike the cool veneer from the Bann's impassive face. It would only serve to strengthen the accusations crafted against him, however, and so he merely leveled his piercing eyes at the man who had ordered his death.

A chime sounded in the distance, marking the hour.

The Bann looked out one of the windows, lifting his chin. "I am reminded that I have a schedule to keep." With a short bow at the waist to Sebastian, he motioned to his guards to prepare his exit. "If you will excuse me, little lordship, I have a meeting with a few associates from Antiva. Recent arrivals to the city have been creating havoc, you see. And it is my duty to protect the citizens from danger."

Sebastian stiffened. _Hawke_.

Again, he was baiting him. And again, it took all of the prince's will to resist.

If Loudain was disappointed by the lack of response, he made no show of it. He turned on his heel, the formation of blue and black around him like a shadow. He had made it no more than halfway when a voice came from the archer's cell.

"You know Goran has no desire to rule," Sebastian warned.

"How fortunate for him, then," the Bann replied without turning back, "that he will have a wife with the perfect disposition for a princess." A guard pulled the door for him, and he stepped through it.

"He need hardly rule at all."

* * *

><p>"It was a guess t' begin with."<p>

Bann MacDougall frowned as Hawke circled the map table, running her fingers along the painstakingly-carved representation of the Starkhaven bannorn.

"We could only hazard at th' plan," he continued, indicating the markers they'd gleaned from Loudain's map the night of the banquet. "No guarantees that it was th' right one."

"But it made perfect sense," she muttered under her breath. "And you checked every caravan?"

"Aye, lady. Even th' hay carts." He nodded to Eoin, who was pulling other maps from the shelves. "But now we know he's not bound fer th' Anderfels or Orlais or Maker-knows-where, which only leaves Starkhaven proper."

Eoin rolled out a map of the city itself. "My guess is that he's still within the city walls."

Hawke leaned over, inspecting the roads to and from Arrow's Rest. "Hiding in plain sight, then?"

"A common strategy," he confirmed. "And there are thousands of places where Loudain's men have free rein. Though we'll still keep searching the caravans, I think the bulk of our focus should be centralized on or near the palace."

"If he's in th' palace," the Bann said solemnly, "there's no way Loudain's men or th' guard will let us traipse around th' place, peeking under tapestries and behind doors."

"But I don't think he's _there_," Hawke grumbled, exasperated. She dragged a hand across her forehead, digging the heel of her palm into her temple. "It doesn't make sense."

"It did until sunrise, lass."

"There has to be something we're missing," she interrupted, furiously scanning the table. "Something that stuck out, even when we thought he was going to be bound and gagged in a trunk somewhere."

"He still could be," Eoin pointed out, but his words fell on deaf ears. Hawke was gathering up the markers on the table, pushing them aside as she squinted to read the inscriptions under what they had covered.

"Nothing," she muttered, "nothing, nothing..." She sat on the table's edge, rolling open a map that covered the river from one city border to the other. "Could he have been moved by water?"

The Bann shook his head. "Had men there too, until this morn. Naught that wasn't checked went through."

Letting out a long sigh, Mairead fell to her back on the table, letting her arms fall beside her and sending the map tumbling to the floor. She didn't care; that particular map hadn't told her anything she didn't already know.

Loudain had taken Sebastian. And she didn't know where to find him. She had sworn that she would come after him – that was what the whole premise of letting him be captured was, as a ruse! They would let Loudain think he had the upper hand, only to swoop in and expose him when he was overconfident and unawares.

Hawke berated herself. She could keep an entire city from collapsing in on itself but she couldn't keep _one man_ safe. One man, who had always leapt to defend her, literally_ thrown_ himself in front of her to keep her from harm. How was it possible to protect thousands of strangers and yet lose one person?

She dragged her palms down the length of her face, inhaling deeply. She couldn't give in to frustration. Not yet. If there was any chance that he was still within their reach...

She clenched her fists and slammed them down, waiting for the satisfying _thunk_ of her hands against the dense wood of table. Momentarily startling, however, was the sensation of swishing through nothing but air. A frown crinkled her face as she wiggled her fingers. How were her hands hanging over the edge if –

She sat up abruptly.

"What?"

The Bann turned to her. "What, 'what?'"

She lay back down, stretching her arms out to her sides, then sat up again.

"This is wrong," she announced, eyes snapping into focus. "The table. It's wrong."

MacDougall and Eoin came over as she hopped to her feet, turning to inspect the antique.

"Can't be wrong," the Bann said, eyeing her warily. "It's part of a set. Th' banns each got one."

"The _map's_ right," she said, leaning forward to grip opposite sides with her fingertips. "But the size..." She straightened. "This one's smaller than the one in the castle."

The Bann and Eoin turned to one another as the implications hit them.

"You're sure," the horsemaster prodded, "absolutely?"

"Positive," she replied firmly. "By about a hand on each side."

They scrambled for the markers again, placing them in what they now knew to be the larger table's pattern.

"This one was by the river..."

"...this was here, in Blythefeld..."

"...one on the road to Kirkwall..."

When they had replaced each of them exactly, they stood back and let Eoin get to work.

"If it's as much smaller as you say," he murmured as his hands flew across the map, "then we need to move everything in, about two fingers' breadth closer to the center."

"And two fingers on the map could mean the difference of half a day's ride," Hawke realized. "We were looking at this all wrong."

"This one," he said, moving the first, "it's not on the river – it's on a bridge. The one with the fastest route to Antiva."

"Makes sense if he thought we were trying to escape," the Champion observed. "And the next?"

"Same as we thought – the route to Kirkwall."

"Right."

He circled round to the other end. "This one in Blythefeld is actually on the village of Merrit's Field."

"An' that was where ye found Sophie," the Bann added, "not in th' hills it was in before."

"Exactly," Hawke said excitedly, "this is all making sense! That just leaves the last one, near the city."

She and the Bann turned to watch Eoin as he studied the table. His look of concentration turned ashen, however, as he realized where the fourth placement was meant to mark.

"Well," the Bann demanded, "what is it, man? We haven't th' time! Put it down!"

With a gentle _clack_, the Bann's second put the little marker in its place and looked up at his lord meaningfully. It didn't take more than a moment for MacDougall's features to arrange themselves into stone. Hawke swallowed hard.

Oh, that wasn't good.

"Prison wagons don't go through th' trade gates," he said, voice grim.

"Prison?" Hawke looked between the two of them, trying to divine what it was they knew that she didn't. "What prison?"

The Bann tapped the fourth marker with one thick finger. "This here," he said gravely, "is Hangman's End."

"A prison for high treason and sacrilegious crimes," Eoin explained. "Crimes that warrant execution."

Mairead felt the world start to crumble out from beneath her, and she struggled for rocky footing. "The eastern palace gardens," she said numbly. "You said they were sacred ground?"

"Aye," MacDougall nodded. "No bloodshed, fighting or any of th' big sins."

There was a short silence where the three of them all looked at each other as they came to the exact same realization. _And Goran claimed that Sebastian stabbed him there._

"Loudain's going to try and hang him," Hawke muttered as she grabbed her blades, snapping them into place as the three of them burst out of the room. Eoin took off to the stables to prepare the horses, and the Bann pulled his waraxes from their rack.

"Ye've got a plan, then?" he asked as a pair of attendants began attaching his armor.

"I've fought my way through prisons before," she said, tightening the straps on her armguards. "And if all else fails..." She pulled a red wooden vial from the pouch on her belt, rolling it in her palm. "I learned a thing or two about explosives from the qunari."

* * *

><p>As distant bells tolled the passing of the next hour, Sebastian paused in his work to steal a glance out of the narrow window. The sun was climbing higher into the sky, and while he didn't know how much time he had left, he knew it couldn't be long.<p>

The white of his armor had dulled, covered in a fine layer of dust and filth from the long-neglected cell. Tiny scratches ran up the usually immaculate surface, a direct consequence of his current endeavor.

In his hands was a single, large iron nail. To be fair, it was more like a spike – and Sebastian had had to dig through the splintered remains of his cot to fish it out, after violently smashing the rickety bed to bits against the stone wall and raising his arms to shield himself from the resulting hail of wooden shards. It was big and bulky, almost as thick around as his index finger and too big for the lock on his cell, but it was a start.

He filed it against the stone, digging away at decades' worth of rust and grime to unearth the point it once held. The archer had two problems now: aside from his own imminent execution, the delegation of Crows had taken their leave some time earlier, and were almost certainly on their way to the city to find Hawke and Bann MacDougall and their company.

For once, he found himself wishing that Zevran were still there with her; he may not have _liked_ the smug elf, but his time in the Crows might give the Champion a much-needed edge in a foreign land where she had the disadvantage and none of her usual fellows-in-arms. Even if Sebastian somehow managed to escape the prison, he would still have ground to cover.

As he managed to reveal metal beneath corrosion and wear, he found himself reciting verses from the Canticle of Benedictions under his breath, almost entirely on the subject of perseverance.

"_Blessed are they who toil in adversity,"_ he murmured, sweat beading on his forehead as he diligently scraped iron against stone. _"For the fruits of their labor will be blessed in His sight._"

Suddenly, the metal-on-metal moan of the hall door behind him jolted him out of his prayers. Tucking the bolt into the guard at his wrist, he turned and braced himself for whatever was to come.

_If the guards have come for me_, he thought, flexing his fingers, _my best hope is to go peacefully and wait for a narrow hall to make my escape_. _If, however, it should be Loudain –_

To his complete and utter surprise, a mousy brown, circleted head of curls peeked out from around the heavy door, followed by Goran's nervous face.

Puzzled, Sebastian tentatively took a step forward. "Cousin?"

Upon hearing the archer's voice, the puppet prince scurried forward to grip the bars. "Sebastian," he whispered, tone urgent, "hurry. We haven't much time."

Sebastian ran to meet him, leaning down to keep his voice low. "Goran," he pressed, "what in Andraste's name are you doing back here?"

"What I should have done yesterday," he declared bravely, though Sebastian could feel the vibration of his trembling hands through the cell bars.

"I'm getting you out."


	16. Burning From Both Ends

**A/N:** Hey, guys! I have a legitimate excuse for the late update – I was off-island. =)

Anyway, I kind of loved/loathed writing Goran in this bit because, as someone who has been manipulated and beaten down for years, he is more of an abuse victim than a prince and it was difficult finding resistance in him. He got there, though, so I was able to finish the chapter!

Also, I'm on tumblr now! tinyfierce DOT tumblr DOT com. I'm still learning the ins and outs of tumblr and deciding what kind of content I should post, so let me know what kinds of things you'd like to see! Snippets of upcoming chapters? Minific? Notes on the stories? Answering questions? BUTTS?!

(But really, feedback on what to post would be appreciated xD)

Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

><p>As they approached the western city gate, the sight of meticulously polished and very visible sentries at their posts caused Hawke to slow her horse to a halt.<p>

"I think I may have noticed a flaw in our plan," she said dryly to the Bann, who scratched his beard.

"Big group's a bit conspicuous, I'll give ye that," he muttered. "Wouldn't take more'n five minutes before word got out t' those who wouldn't want us t' get very far."

Mairead thumbed the wooden _gaatlok_ vials on her belt. "I could always cause a distraction."

"And blast one of our best defenses t' rubble?" He raised an eyebrow. "Can think of a lot of folk who'd be more'n a bit pissed off a' that."

Sighing, Hawke set them back in place. "Then I'll have to do something a bit more juvenile." She dismounted, flexing her fingers. "But when I get back, you'd best have a pig." And before Guinn could ask what in Andraste's name she meant by that, she ducked behind a nearby house and blended seamlessly into the shadows like candle smoke in fog.

The shade of the trees provided excellent cover, and she moved with ease from one wall to the next. In short work, she was flush against the stone of the gate, and a few steps was all it took for her to slide silently into one of the unlit guard stations. A passing sentry's keyring glinted in the light like a signal, and years of lifting far more difficult things off of far more paranoid targets had made Hawke an expert of relieving others of their property. Sure enough, he didn't so much as miss a step when the collection of iron trinkets disappeared from his belt.

And when Hawke slunk back to the group, the Bann was waiting for her with muddy knees and a squirming piglet under one arm.

"Just made an arse of myself," he huffed. "I'm hoping that there's a point t' it."

"Trust me," the Champion said as she pulled a length of leather cord from her satchel and tied it around the squealing animal's neck. "My brother and I used to do this to the templars all the time back home. And if a couple of unruly children were successful..." She picked up the energetic little porker and admired her handiwork. "Then as an adult, I should be golden, right?"

She set him down facing the gate and, with a friendly slap on the rump, sent him careening toward the stiff-faced guardsmen.

There were shouts, tiny high-pitched shrieks, and the clanking of half a dozen sets of armor taking off in a generally southward direction. As their footsteps died out, the group approached the now-abandoned gate.

"I'll be damned," the Bann muttered, handing Gryphon's reins back to Hawke. "Tying th' city keys t' a beastie creates a mess of panic."

"Sometimes," she said gruffly, sliding into the saddle. "Depends on how fast the pig is."

* * *

><p>Goran studied the lock, hands shaking with what must have been an equal mix of fear and adrenaline. "I hadn't thought to – I could go try filch a set of keys, perhaps from a guard station?"<p>

"There is no time," Sebastian warned him, "and no need." He pressed his shoulder to the bars, reaching between them to extend his arm. "Your kilt pin, quickly! They've taken anything of use to me."

Despite some initial confusion, the current prince managed to find the ornament nestled into the folds of tartan wool, fumbling to free it and press it into his cousin's waiting hand. Immediately, the archer set to work, turning the delicate metal point-inward to the lock of his cell door.

The sculpted crest, a pair of arrows crossed in the center of the Chantry's fiery halo sigil, dug into his skin as he gripped it tightly. Not what he had ever imagined using the Crown Jewelry for, but Sebastian supposed it was apt, in a way.

"How did you get here alone?" He glanced up quickly to the door, working from muscle memory alone.

"I told the guards that I wanted to offer you a chance to make amends for the attempt on my life before you died."

Sebastian winced as one curved point drew blood, but continued. "Not Loudain's men, I take it?"

"Crown guards." Goran tried to pull his eyes away from the impromptu lockpick, but failed miserably and instead stared outright. "You know how to_ pick locks?_"

"Mother used to try to lock me in my chambers when ambassadors with daughters were about," Sebastian hastily explained. "And I've only improved since moving to Kirkwall."

"I can imagine. But a chantry brother...?" He trailed off, and his cousin understood.

"Picking a lock is not inherently a sin against the Maker," he replied evenly. A quick jerk in his wrist, and the final latch popped open, freeing him. Wrapping his bloody hand in the kerchief Goran offered, the resourceful would-be prince gave his best mollifying smile. "It's the actions that follow that decide whether or not you require penance."

A sound from the main access hall caught his attention, and he quickly stiffened.

"Come," he issued, taking off for the far end of the cell block, Goran at his heels. "The sentries use this corridor least of all. It may prove to be our best option."

True to his observations, the dimly-lit, narrow hallway was completely deserted. From what he could glimpse through the occasional barred window, they were on the northern perimeter, ducking out of sight as guards paced their rounds along the fortified parapets just outside. A few tight corners and breath-stealing close calls later, the sound of footsteps called for the use of the ornamental pin again to hurriedly pop open the nearest door.

"Hurry," Goran desperately whispered as they grew closer. "We've got to hide!"

Despite the sharp pains in his palm and fingers, Sebastian sprung the lock and pushed his cousin inside without so much as a glance into the room's contents. He quickly slipped in behind him, silently closing the door and pressing himself to the wall beside the viewing panel.

And not a moment too soon. He held his breath as the clanking of armor grew louder, closer...

...and then passed them by completely.

Exhaling slowly, he finally turned to see where they had taken shelter. Chests and racks lined the walls, a single torch illuminating musty wooden crates with poorly-scrawled labels. Goran walked over to one of the wall racks, tapping his fingertip on a spiked mace.

"An armory?"

"A small one," Sebastian confirmed, moving from one wall to the other, checking what was available to him. "It isn't the main store, but we are _very_ fortunate." Either that, or the Maker was giving them a warning of what was to come. He ran his hands along a set of sturdy-looking, identical bows clearly designed for economy and practical use rather than fine skill and finesse.

Picking up the nearest one, heavy and unfamiliar in his hand, the archer lamented the loss of his grandfather's legacy. The bow had been taken from him upon his entrance to the palace gardens, and Maker only knew where it was now. Loudain may have had it destroyed out of spite, or someone in the castle who recognized its value may have made off with it.

Still, he slung a full quiver over his shoulder and slid the clunky, inelegant bow across his back. There was no time to get used to a new weapon, he knew, and coupled with the injuries he sustained in his hand from the kilt pin, that would put him at a disadvantage.

"Cousin," he called in a low voice, careful to keep below notice. "Have you any fighting strengths?"

Sheepish, Goran tugged at his doublet. "I used to wave a plank menacingly at deer eating the crops back on the farm."

_I can take that as a 'no.' _Sebastian set his jaw and scanned the room for anything resembling a large slab of wood, wide and flat. After a moment's search, he yanked a rather squat shortsword from a labeled crate on his left.

"Sword it is, then," he said, handing it hilt-first to the crown prince, who reluctantly accepted it. The way he nearly dropped it from the unexpected weight wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring, but it would have to do. At least he seemed to have determination on his side and was fairly strong from the years of manual labor – that would serve him well.

They couldn't dally much longer. Even if they managed to escape the prison itself, the band of Antivan Crows already had over an hour's head start toward his unpredictable fiancee.

"We will wait for the next patrol to pass," he instructed his cousin, crouching down by the door for the moment's rest it would grant. "Then we can make our next attempt, and pray to the Maker that they weren't headed for my cell."

* * *

><p>Hawke and the Bann's company of men had ridden right from the city gates as fast as their horses could carry them. Now, though the roads directly around the city were wide and maintained, they were about to pass into the forest paths, which were often overgrown and would drag them down considerably if not traveled heedfully.<p>

Not that they hadn't encountered..._ hindrances_ on the main roads. And, from the looks of things, their obstacles were far from over.

The group pulled their horses to a slow trot as the forest line came into view. As they approached, one man in the road turned into ten, then twenty. They slid from behind trees, crept out of shadows, blocking their path. As Hawke assessed each individual pain in her backside as they appeared, she noted that their apparent leader bore the sigil of the Antivan Crows crosswise over his hip.

"You were right, Zev," she confirmed, reining Gryphon to a halt.

"Am I not always?"

As the blond elf and MacDougall flanked her on either side, Hawke flexed her fingers. The assassin leader was walking up to them in long, measured strides, clapping lazily and giving them and their horses an appreciative yet calculating once-over.

"Well!" he called, his voice a thick Antivan accent positively _dripping_ with a smugness that Hawke wanted to slap right off of his tattooed face. "Not a scratch on you!"

"Ah, you mean those?" The Champion thumbed over her left shoulder, and Zevran held up a sack clanking with disassembled trap components.

"A commendable effort, to be sure," the former assassin offered, honey-gold eyes gleaming. "If a bit amateurish."

If the Crow leader was insulted by Zevran's blatant taunt, he made no show of it. His grin stayed perfectly in place, and he spread his hands in a shallow mock bow. "Of course, we expected no less from the _illustrious_ Champion of Kirkwall! Rumors of your exploits have reached our ears even in beautiful Antiva." He tapped his lips with one finger, his smirk only broadening. "Though not much goes beneath our notice. We take– "

He was interrupted by Hawke's loud, theatrical groan as she nearly doubled over in her saddle.

"I don't have _time _for this," she moaned, dragging herself back upright and looking thoroughly displeased. "Maker, do they _teach _you to talk like this in the crows?!"

"Yes," Zevran called from beside her, not missing a beat as he ticked them off on his fingers. "Poison-making, thievery, and _then_ the condescending banter."

"Let me make this clearer," Mairead continued, ignoring him. "Step aside. Don't keep us held up, and we won't kill you."

The egoistic Crow raised a hand, signaling his fellows. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Hawke had already drawn her daggers.

They _always_ said that.

* * *

><p>Another corner led to another hallway, to another identical row of rooms and identical windows with identical views. Sebastian fought down the frustration threatening to overpower his adrenaline, which was considerable in itself.<p>

Nearly an hour they had been doing this, tracing circles in the prison. He and Goran had made it to one single-flight set of secluded circular stairs on a stroke of sheer timing and luck, but had encountered none since. One level. All of the dodging and hiding and running and near misses, and they had only made it down _one level_.

_Three left_, the archer checked, confirming with a quick glance stolen out of a window to gauge their height. _Two if we're willing to jump._

Clanking footsteps from around the corner caught his attention, and he motioned for his cousin to keep up. They'd been down this specific corridor at least a dozen times, and he knew from experience that the record-keeper's room second on the left was unlocked. They darted in, bolting it silently behind them and crouching in the shadows.

Goran was naturally rather good at following close and keeping quiet, Sebastian mused, sparing a glance for the crown prince hugging his own knees in the corner. Except for one close call when he had noisily knocked over a spear on the floor above, he hadn't been much of a hindrance. The part of the 'rescuer,' it seemed, had fallen to Sebastian after the first two minutes of being the intended rescuee.

The fear was a problem, however. His hesitation and jump at every noise was... less than ideal. Unsurprising, though, for a man who'd previously fought the likes of hungry foxes and irritated chickens and was now faced with the prospect of well-armed and fully-trained men of the crown.

Still, Sebastian knew that their slow progress was not enough. He was out of his cell and they were out of sight sure enough, but that they were taking such a long time with so little distance gained meant that the guards would soon discover that their highest-priority captive was missing.

A deliberate-sounding ruckus of shouting and clanging shot through the windows, coming from the wing overhead where he had been confined. As the alarm echoed through the halls, the clamor of running feet and clinking of armor quickly became thunderous and agitated. A heavy patrol barreled past the very door he rested against, Sebastian's quickened pulse keeping time with their footsteps.

It had begun.

* * *

><p>Hawke coughed as she ran through a cloud of acrid smoke, emerging to a pile of dead or unconscious Crows and the Bann's men trying to calm the horses.<p>

"You could've warned me that you were going to use lyrium dust!" She glared at Zevran through reddened eyes as he followed at her heels.

"It crossed my mind, yes." He sheathed his daggers, reaching for the reins of his horse. "_Ingenious_ of you to light it on fire. Well done."

The explosion that had resulted from using flame augmentations (while _completely_ unaware of what the assassin had been tossing about) had half-tempted the Champion to kill him for that nasty surprise.

"It got the job done," she huffed, whistling for Gryphon, who pulled free from the soldier holding him. "How did you even get it? You're no templar – no one in their right mind would sell it to you."

"Have you been to the apothecary in front of the palace?" With a fond smile, he pulled up on his mount's reins. "He has a lovely daughter."

"Why do I even ask these things," Hawke mumbled, scanning the group for MacDougall. He was easy to spot; a giant barreling toward you on an equally enormous horse is exceedingly difficult to miss.

"If they sent an advance guard," he huffed, "then we're gettin' close." He rolled back his sleeves roughly, and Hawke caught a sight of a sizable, freely bleeding gash before he pulled a bandage over it and slapped a bracer on top. "Mercs means they're nervous."

"And nervous means they're going to hurry things along," Mairead continued, following his train of thought. "Sebastian's running out of time."

A shout from the Bann gathered the group up quickly, and not seconds later they had resumed their breakneck pace, winding through the narrow forest paths. As the wind whipped her hair around her neck, Hawke swore under her breath. They were coming. They knew where he was, what Bann Loudain was trying to do, they had _Sophie_ – the only thing they needed so desperately was more time. She could only hope that Sebastian could buy himself a delay somehow. Even a few moments could make the ultimate difference.

This, Hawke thought dryly, would be a good time for him to reconcile himself to lying.

* * *

><p>It was amazing how a prison could feel so vast and yet so damningly small at the same time.<p>

Deciding to move into the open rather than risk being discovered while cornered in a small room, the two royal fugitives had been relentlessly chased by sentries down seemingly endless corridors and corners, only to encounter more guards at every turn. Sebastian led the way, loosing volleys of arrows enough to scatter the men, praying not to injure anyone too grievously as he darted through the chaos with Goran close behind him.

"They wouldn't raise a hand against the crown prince," Sebastian called over the din behind them as they rounded into a clear stretch. "You should find a safe place and stay there until this is finished."

"I can't," Goran protested, tugging at his cumbersome regalia as he struggled to keep up with the seasoned fighter ahead. "What if you get caught? I have to explain that I– "

"If it were men of the crown, that _may_ have a chance," the archer countered grimly. "But Loudain's men will claim that I kidnapped you," he flung open a set of doors and burst through, "forced you to release me, and shoot me on sight." He pressed himself flat to one wall in an alcove, motioning for Goran to do the same. After a unit barreled through the intersection ahead, oblivious to the pair hiding in the shadows, Sebastian pushed off his heels and continued. "And there is no way to predict which we will encounter at any time."

It wasn't just an argument – it was the unfortunate state of things. The colors the guards bore seemed to be entirely at random; they would flee from a group of crown soldiers only to nearly crash into a squadron of Loudain's armed lackeys within the minute. Though as much as he could, Sebastian took more care with his shots when evading the former, doing what he could to spare those not in the conniving Bann's pocket.

They were still, after all, people of Starkhaven.

Hope welled up a surge of reserve strength as he caught sight of a staircase enclosed in a circular tower to their left. The alarmed calls and unsheathing of swords coming from behind them were motivation enough to make a break for the rare avenue of escape, Sebastian ushering Goran ahead of him and slamming the door shut as soon as they were inside. Before joining his cousin, the archer took a moment to shove the deadbolt into place and jam a stolen dagger into the handle of the door that led to the floor above, sealing off both possible entrances. Just in the nick of time, as both began to shake angrily with the force of pursuers behind them.

The crown prince nervously shifted from one foot to the other in the few seconds it took for Sebastian to catch up, and followed closely as they turned the next corner into a quiet, narrow hallway. They took advantage of the momentary reprieve to catch their breath and calculate their approximate location relative to the massive front gate, the only means of entrance or exit that was not a cliffside window.

"This will be easier alone," Sebastian murmured, continuing their earlier discussion, "if I do not have to worry for your safety."

Goran blanched. "But– "

"At the next opportunity, we will hide you." Hands on his knees, the rightful prince lifted his head to look the pale, exhausted pretender to the throne in the eye. "You are still prince, and my kin. I couldn't– "

He trailed off as shadows from torchlight moved against the far wall, revealing two sentries assuming a post by the doors into the next wing, a prime means of egress that was protected – rightly so – in the event of an escape alarm. Though they were relatively stationary, any sentries at all were still too close for comfort, and Sebastian found himself eyeing the locks implanted in the doors beside him. Gently, he placed a hand on his cousin's chest and pushed him flat against the wall, indicating the shadows with a nod. A kind of panicked understanding crossed Goran's face, and he slid a few paces to the side to allow Sebastian access to the door lock he was intent on breaking through.

It was just a precautionary measure, the chantryman reminded himself as he braced the now-scratched kilt pin against the makeshift bandages on his palm, every turn of his wrist eliciting a wince at the pain building in his wrists and forearms from using an unfamiliar, poorly aligned bow. Precision shots with such an instrument were like trying to thread a needle by throwing a rock at it. His skin burned beneath the leather and his muscles protested violently, but he pressed on.

He was so wrapped up in his pain and the intricacies of the inner lock mechanisms that he didn't so much as spare a glance up at Goran. The crown prince was watching the shadows move so intently, so determined to keep an eye on them, that neither man realized how close to the door he had gotten. An unexpected spring latch unhooking within the lock sent the makeshift pick digging into Sebastian's palm, and the resulting involuntary jerk drove his elbow straight into his cousin's ribs.

Sebastian could only watch in time-slowed horror as his curly head struck the bottom of a wall torch, raining embers and knocking the ill-fitting coronet to the ground.

It was the second time in as many days that the royal crown had touched earth.

"Goran!" he managed, voice strangled, but it was too late. His cousin spun and flapped his heavily ornamental garb in an effort to not catch fire, and the alerted guards were advancing, their shadows distorting the closer they came. Closing his eyes briefly and issuing a prayer, the archer remained crouched, drawing his bow and waiting.

White arrows on a red field entered his sights, and he spread his fingertips.

"Wait," Goran called desperately to the guards, "_wait!_"

They apparently either did not recognize him without the circlet or were too focused on the arrows pointed at them to take notice, and reached for their weapons. They hadn't even drawn them when Sebastian loosed a half-dozen quick shots in succession, pinning them solidly to the wall by their regalia.

Letting out a long breath, he braced a hand on the wall to help himself to his feet, and caught their vain struggles out of the corner of one eye as he held out a hand to Goran.

His cousin held out the full quiver he'd been carrying obligingly, letting Sebastian switch it for his own half-empty one before scurrying to pick up the mark of his station that lay dully glinting in the low light. As he clumsily shoved it back onto his messy head, the look on the guards' faces turned to an entirely different kind of alarm.

"The _prince_?" One guard's face contorted in angry bewilderment. "No one said– "

"What if we'd _shot_ him," the other hissed, less bewildered, more angry. Jerking against his restraints in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself, he turned to Sebastian, who leaned against the wall, one forearm bracer unsnapped in an effort to massage the abused tissue beneath.

"What are you waiting for," he demanded, armor clanking in an echo of his frustration. "Take the killing shot already!"

Grimacing, the would-be prince re-tightened the straps. "I have no desire to end your life."

"But you're– "

"A Vael," Sebastian interrupted. "And a brother of the Chantry. I would not be either if I took life so easily."

The guard scoffed, but something in his partner's face changed at those words, studying Sebastian with a careful eye. The sound of armored feet approaching caught the attention of all present, the red-haired Vael quickly standing and motioning for the crown prince to move to his side.

"The middle hall," the second guard called.

Sebastian turned, stepping closer while still keeping an ear to the impending visitors. "What?"

If possible, the other guard was even more furious. "Nelson, stop!"

"It leads straight to the front gates."

"What," his partner spat, "are you _doing_?"

Angling his head to face him, the one named as Nelson glared. "What, and I suppose you've _liked_ Loudain's men stomping in here and pissing on everything like they're the lords of us lowly peasants? We are men of the _Maker _and the _crown_ above all, for Andraste's sake! Remember who you serve!" At the other guard's begrudging silence, he looked back to Sebastian and continued. "You can use the gatekeeper's steps to get to the ground floor. If you want to get out, make it fast and make it now."

Unsure of how to respond to such an unexpected gesture of loyalty and faith, Sebastian acknowledged him with a shallow bow of his head. "Maker watch over you."

"And you, Highness." It was unclear to which Highness the guard was speaking, but he met Sebastian's bright blue eyes without blinking. "Maker bless the Vaels."

With that, the two fugitives ran into the door the soldiers had been guarding and bolted it behind them.

Another patrol passed by, and as soon as they were out of sight, Sebastian and Goran cautiously moved out from behind the crates they'd used as cover. A second visual check, and the archer waved his cousin safely forward.

Every time they went undetected, Sebastian's relief rose up like an offering to the Maker. It was becoming more and more difficult the farther they progressed, as the groups of soldiers were increasing in frequency and size, and hiding spaces were fewer and farther between.

Still, the guard's words echoed in his head.

_The middle hall._

If Hawke were here, he thought as they crept down the row of windowless doors, she would scoff at his decision to trust someone who had just pointed a sword at him. But Sebastian knew faith when he saw it; you couldn't counterfeit such heartfelt conviction.

Also, he had very little choice in the matter.

So when they came upon the split route, three identical-looking passages leading in vastly different directions, his feet only hesitated a moment before heading straight down the central path.

Not thirty paces in, his trust was rewarded: the grinding of a winch reverberated through the walls in the near distance. The guardsman had told the truth; they were nearing the gate.

Energized by the prospect of putting the prison behind him, Sebastian picked up the pace. Getting outside was only the first hurdle to overcome; he still needed to find himself and Goran horses and gain some distance between themselves and the Bann as they raced to aid Hawke.

He knew that she could look after herself. He _knew_, and yet...

He just couldn't leave her alone. He'd been a fool to think he would ever be able to again.

Light softly glowed through the barred window of the door in front of them, adding to the promise of what lay beyond. Without a second thought, he pulled it open and ran through. The long, hall-like room was bright with sunlight flooding in from the tall windows along one wall, and he was able to glimpse leafy treetops of the thick growth surrounding the prison. If that wall faced the forest and not the cliffs, then it further validated the guard's intentions and they were but a few doors away from the structure's one exit.

He crouched and spun at the sound of wood hitting stone as the door at the far end of the hall was violently flung open, men flooding in to block his escape. He turned toward the entrance, intending to double back, but yet more filed in through that same arch in a parade of white and red dotted with dark blue. Pulling Goran behind him, Sebastian backed up toward the windows and cast a glance downward. Much too far to jump.

They were trapped.

Cautiously – and _very_ slowly – the exiled prince straightened. The crown guards and Loudain's men might have had their weapons drawn and trained on him, but they were not advancing. A tense silence hung in the air, the only audible noise the shuffling and clacking of armor and weapons as the soldiers stared the two fugitives down.

_Ah,_ Sebastian realized as he met their eyes, _they're waiting._

From the back, the tightly-packed bodies moved aside, re-forming as two figures made their way to the forefront.

"Brother Sebastian," Bann Loudain called, hands clasped behind his back. "You've caused quite the uproar."

The captain of the guard took a step forward, but Sebastian held his ground.

"Sebastian Vael," he announced civilly, "we wish to avoid further bloodshed. If you agree to submit peacefully, we can end this without violence."

There was a moment as Sebastian glanced about him when he actually considered surrender. They were far outnumbered, Goran could be injured or worse, and any resistance would undoubtedly result in his capture or death. What he needed was a distraction, something large enough to pull the attention of what was easily more than fifty trained soldiers.

"The last thing I ever wanted," he began, tracing the room with his eyes, "was to cause harm." His gaze alighted on the torch wheel above, and trailed up to the rope securing it aloft. "However, you must understand why I cannot simply resign myself to a wrongful death."

"This, coming from a chaos-sewing dissident," Loudain scoffed, advancing toward them. "You attack the prince, your own cousin, on holy ground, endanger his life in an attempt to save your own, and openly consort with known reckless, indiscriminate murderers and criminals!"

Sebastian prickled. "Hawke," he issued sharply, "is no more an indiscriminate murderer than you are the Prince of Starkhaven."

"Silence!" The Bann snapped, sending Goran recoiling. He was close now, enough for Sebastian to feel the heat of his irate, labored breaths. "You will say _nothing_, and I will see you die before you speak another treacherous word." He didn't release the locked glare he kept on Sebastian as he spat orders to the crown prince. "Your Highness," he growled, speaking the royal address like it meant 'prize idiot,' "we are overcome with relief to see you unharmed. You may now safely join us for your return." He turned on his heel. "You captor will be promptly dealt with."

He began walking back toward his men, but froze not five paces on. Frowning, he turned to see the space behind him empty, Goran still firmly behind Sebastian. That piercing, dark-eyed glare was now turned to his precious puppet as his patience visibly wore thin.

"You may now _join us_," he repeated, enunciating each word so as to be unmistakable.

Sebastian turned just enough to meet the prince's nervous gaze as it flittered back and forth between the Bann and his cousin. He was hesitating, his feet ever-so-slowly moving to take a step back toward the wall.

"_Now_," Loudain barked, pointing to the floor at his side as he would a dog.

Goran flinched, and that visceral jerk apparently traveled to his tongue as Sebastian watched his mouth snap open.

"I wish to pardon this man," he burst out, the words bubbling from his mouth like a terrified geyser.

There was silence in the room for a moment before the guard-captain regained his bearings. "Your Highness?"

Loudain's face had fury etched into every line, irises nearly black with barely-contained rage. And all of it was directed at the meek, mousy prince whom he had crushed beneath his heel for years.

Goran straightened a little, swallowing down what Sebastian was fairly sure was vomit. "I am prince," he repeated, only the tiniest measure louder than the first time, "and I pardon him."

"You are not in your _right mind_," the Bann hissed, covering the distance between them in quick strides and grabbing Goran roughly by the wrist. A chorus of adjusting weapons, some of which were cautiously now pointed at him, went ignored as he yanked the prince forward. "This man is after your throne!"

"I never wanted it!" Goran cried, pulling to no avail. "_You _did!"

"_Enough_," hissed the Bann, another insistent yank almost sending the prince tumbling.

"Let him go," Sebastian protested, but the captain of the guard stood between him and the conflict.

"Bann Loudain," the guard-captain interrupted carefully, "the _prince_ wishes to speak." The not-so-subtle reminder of social standing was either ignored or missed entirely.

"He does not need to _think_," Loudain retorted, "and neither do you!"

The expression on the guard-captain's face at that flattened, and his tone lost all of its attempts at pleasantry. "My Lord, Prince Goran asks that you release him. Remember your position."

As they spoke, Sebastian's hand crept toward the stolen dagger at his hip. If he could sever the rope, the crashing chandelier could incapacitate at least ten, twenty guards and likely cause panic. He only needed the right angle, at the right moment. Slowly, he started to slide one foot.

_Goran, _he pleaded,_ you can do this. Give me just a bit more time._

"I'm not going back," the prince wailed, desperately trying to wrench himself free. "Not a day goes by that I don't pray to the Maker to be released from it!"

"Cease your whining," sneered the Bann. "Have I not done everything for you?"

"My Lord, the Prince's arm –"

"You've ruined my life!"

"I've made everything perfect!"

"Bann Loudain, this is the last time we will– "

"No more, Loudain! I'm done with your game!"

"_Enough_!"

Loudain pulled again, this time ripping the fabric of the sleeve he had grabbed hold of. It came off in his hand, and Goran skidded to a stop face first on the floor. As the Bann discarded the cloth and reached for him again, the smaller man scrambled upright, pulling his sword and waving it in front of himself clumsily. "Stay back," he warned shakily, attempting a few menacing-looking slashes through the air.

Unimpressed, Loudain took a step forward. "You fool no one, _highness_," he said dryly. "Toss it aside and end this embarrassing display." When Goran didn't obey, he moved closer again, only to be met with desperate, wild, skill-less swipes.

Even if the wielder has no skill, a sword is still sharp.

Loudain's head swiveled to the side, lightning-fast as the steel grazed his cheek. Goran looked on in horror, lowering his blade as the Bann slowly raised his fingertips to the bleeding slit in his skin. Disbelief was quickly replaced by fury, and Loudain snarled as he drew his rapier, stalking the prince back until Goran was flat against the cold stone of the wall.

"You," he spat, raising the sword to strike, "ungrateful little _viper_– "

There was a snap of a bowstring, and a wet, hollow _thunk_.

Sebastian froze in place, inches away from his target, as he saw the arrow pierce clear through Bann Loudain's neck.

The sound of the body collapsing into a crumpled heap of tartan and flesh on the floor was the only thing audible in the echoing stone. Every head turned toward the direction of the bowman, the entrance he and Goran had used.

Just past the doorway stood a lone guard some steps back from the rest, a red tunic with the Starkhaven arrows marking him as a crown guard.

His face, Sebastian realized. He'd seen that face before. As he lowered his bow, there was a large hole in each shoulder of his raiment, and recognition struck Sebastian immediately.

The partner of the guard who had directed him through the passages.

He nodded to his commander, who in turn issued orders to his men. "Bann Loudain attempted treason," he bellowed. "Gather and arrest his associates!"

The next few minutes were a blur, Sebastian gathering up his wilted, glassy-eyed cousin and propping him against the wall as best he could while many of Loudain's men either resisted arrest or attempted to flee. He met the eyes of the bowman who had felled the Bann, watching as he gingerly rolled his stiff shoulders back and returned an exasperated glare.

_Don't misunderstand,_ that look said. _I didn't do it for you._

With an acknowledging nod, Sebastian turned his attention back to keeping watch over his kin as the crown guards wrangled the last of Loudain's lackeys.

As the room settled, the guard-captain called his men to stand at attention. Every remaining soldier snapped upright, their shackled charges at their feet.

The captain clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat expectantly, and Sebastian gave his cousin something of a firm nudge to stand in front to be addressed.

Satisfied, the captain began. "We witnessed Bann Horace Loudain of Estonborough physically assault the crown prince of Starkhaven. We moved to his defense and were met with hostility." He lifted his chin, indicating the guard who had taken the shot. "When he drew his weapon, guardsman Boyd judged that it was a threat on the prince's life and acted according to our laws. He loosed a single arrow, killing the Bann instantly." He turned fully, this time. "Guardsman Boyd, is this correct?"

"Aye," Boyd confirmed, wincing as he leaned back against the rough-hewn granite. "Clean shot."

"Then, until further procedure..." The captain bowed at the waist. "Goran Vael, Crown Prince of Starkhaven, do you bear witness?"

"I bear witness," Goran mumbled blearily.

The second bow, directed at him, caught Sebastian off-guard.

"Sebastian Vael, son of the late Prince Thomas, do you bear witness?"

"I bear witness," he agreed quickly, and marveled as the captain proceeded to bark orders at his men, who dragged or marched their captives toward the cell block. He moved to stand beside him, watching the flurry of activity with interest.

"You acknowledged my nobility," he mused aloud, curiosity evident. "Even though I was accused of treason?"

"The prince pardoned you," replied the captain, signaling for the next group to be taken. After a moment, he shot him a sideways glance and added, "And I suspect we'll be seeing a lot come to light in the next few months."

"I do not envy you," Sebastian offered sympathetically, but the captain held up a hand.

"No offense meant, my lord, but of the two of us, I think you will have more to explain."

_Isn't that the Maker's truth_, the archer thought with a sigh, and the final unit gathered in front of their chief for orders.

"Go find the remainder of the Bann's men," he instructed. "Accept if they surrender, and jail them separately until we can figure out what to do with them." He inclined his head to take in Goran's blanched face. "Unless his highness has further instructions?"

Sebastian kept pointedly silent, despite a pleading look from his cousin to _relieve him of this already_. When it became clear that no help was forthcoming, he shook his head. "No, do what you think is best."

The captain nodded, excusing himself with a bow. "Your grace. My lord."

As soon as they were alone, Goran's already-pale face waxed with sweat, and at the sight of the Bann's corpse, he hurriedly found his way to a corner urn to empty the contents of his stomach.

Sebastian knelt by the pooling fabric and blood, reaching out with gentle fingers to close the Bann's eyes. He offered a prayer, entire and heartfelt, commending his spirit to the Maker. It was not his place to deny the Last Rites for any soul, he had long come to understand, no matter what acts or atrocities they may have committed in life. It was up to the Maker and no other to judge.

He had only barely finished the final verse of Benedictions when Goran's sudden alarm brought him to his feet.

"Sebastian!" He stood at the window, knuckles white from frantically gripping at the sill. "Cousin, more are coming!"

Panic set into his veins, exponentially growing harder and harder for adrenaline to overpower his exhaustion. He had thought that they were safe, that his name had been cleared. But, just as Goran had feared, a small gap in the treetops over the incoming road to Hangman's End showed the movement of another approaching onslaught.

Frantically, Sebastian whipped around to find the guard captain, to have him explain things, for assistance, for support – but he was long gone, seeing to his men and their prisoners.

His heart thudded in his chest as he watched a force of riders pour out from the trees, swarming the road that would have led to his freedom.

And he, the hopeful future prince of Starkhaven, with a dead Bann on his hands.


	17. Robin and Marian

**A/N:** Hey, long time no see!

There are only two chapters left. Well, a chapter and an epilogue, which will both be uploaded at the same time – meaning that this story will be complete at the next update! Though don't worry - I do still plan on writing more with these two.

If you want updates on how the chapter is going or little writing snippets, come find me on tumblr! I'm .com and I'd love to hear from y'all.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>As the prison came into view through the trees, Hawke pulled ahead of the Bann, despite his protests.<p>

"I'm not princess _yet_," she called as she passed. "And even if I were, you should know me better by now."

"Should learn a thing or two about safety," MacDougall grunted, keeping apace. "Though ye've got th' ordering-folks-about bit well down."

Their company spread out from the tree cover out into the open, with no sign of archers' fire from the defenses. A very good sign, Hawke mused, or a very bad one. Either way, they had the front and south walls surrounded, the back against the trees and the north on a cliff face.

Even if they managed to destroy or raise the portcullis, they would still have to bottleneck through the front, which would give the guards time to rally - or more heavily defend their hostage, neither of which provided a particularly good opportunity for Sebastian to make a move.

While the guards were distracted with the main brunt of the force, Hawke reasoned as she dismounted, no one would notice a single person quietly letting themselves in through a window. And as long as the fighting was concentrated at the singular front gate, openings would be easier to find than "spot-the-bloodstain" in Darktown. She had no objections to scaling a story or two, either, being no stranger to some... _creative_ burglaries.

"Zevran," she called, signaling for the assassin.

She was going in.

* * *

><p>From his view at the window, Sebastian desperately scanned the riders to assess their numbers. They spread out, breaking formation to surround the only two viable prison walls and barricading the roads.<p>

A stone rolled in his stomach and a sickly chill sat in his throat. His choices, it seemed, were limited to bad, worse, and death, at the hands of men who deliberately bore no colors.

_No colors_, he came back to over and over again as he searched the scene below for an avenue of escape. They had corralled Bann Loudain's men in the prison, and the Bann hadn't had time enough between Sebastian's escape and being shot down to send for reinforcements or mercenaries from the city. The Bann had also taken great pains to ensure that few people knew of the captured prince's location. So without a sigil, under whose command...?

"Zevran!"

The familiar voice, though faint, rang out like a bell. Hope flooded the archer's chest as he saw a golden-haired elf artfully weaving through the other riders, and he followed his path until a flash of red leather signaled the Antivan's intended destination.

Hawke was agitatedly digging through her satchel, waving an outstretched hand toward Zevran expectantly. She was bleeding, she was yelling, and she was angry – but she was whole, and very much alive.

Sebastian's knees threatened to buckle beneath him at the powerful relief that engulfed him like he was being pulled under a tide. Of _course_ she had found him. Nothing had ever stopped her before; not fire, not steel, not _dragons_.

She was Hawke, after all, and he had made her a promise she fully intended on seeing him keep.

A strangled laugh of some unplaceable emotion escaped his mouth as he gathered his bearings. One foot moved, then the other, carrying him away from the window in tentative steps that soon strengthened into a full-tilt run through the open doors that led to the guard tower. He met no resistance as he tore through the rooms and into the circular stone watchstation, the weapons and torches nothing but a blur in his peripheral vision. Down the spiral stairs he ran, two at a time, each step closer and closer to the ground.

He flung open the tower door, bypassing the gate and feeling the sink of soft grass beneath his boots as he hit earth, ignoring the stares of dozens of mounted riders as their intended evacuee strolled right out of the fortress they were about to raid in his defense. He turned the corner, smiling broadly at the sound of his leader shouting orders to the former Crow in front of her.

"...and a length of wire," she demanded, tightening the straps on her armor. "And I'll need a pair of throwing knives to cram into the masonry for the climb – the thinnest you have."

Her back was to the prince, though Zevran noticed his approach first with a glint in his eye and an acknowledging nod.

"Ah," the elf began, "I don't think– "

"_Yes,_ you'll be compensated," she interrupted. "Though if Sebastian gets so much as a scratch on him from your copper-pinching, I'll find more creative uses for the daggers, understood?"

The archer stopped within arm's length, chuckling at the warmth in his heart that her snapping had stirred. "My knight in shining armor."

He saw Hawke's shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second before she spun around to face him. As his face registered, she froze in place, staring at him blankly – then broke into a laugh that would have woken the dead.

But really, Sebastian mused as he watched her dissolve into peals of laughter, what other reaction was there?

Between guffaws, she tried to speak several times, but failed miserably. Sebastian waited with characteristic patience, watching with amusement as she wiped her eyes and subdued her mirth down to weak-yet-insistent hiccups.

"Sebastian," she managed, clutching her sides. "Did you just _walk out the front door_?"

* * *

><p>Though everything from tits to ribs ached from laughing so damned hard, Hawke fought to straighten up and did her best to look genuinely disappointed. She was quite sure, however, that the fit brought on by the combined ridiculousness of the situation and immeasurable relief at seeing him alive and unharmed had left a grin on her face that no amount of feigned sulking could mask. Still, she forced down the visceral urge to either wrap her arms around him or stab him and schooled her features.<p>

"Well," she sighed defeatedly, "there goes my dashing entrance."

That familiar arched eyebrow had never looked better than after Hawke had thought she'd never see it again. That need to hold him was back and insistently nipping at her heels, trying to propel her forward and headlong into the cool white armor.

"You had planned an entrance," Sebastian only half-asked.

"Bursting from the trees on horseback with my band of men like the Blackwood Brigand, fighting to free my lady? That's an entrance if I've ever heard one."

"The Blackwood Brigand?" He stepped closer, a smile tugging at his mouth. "The fabled aristocrat-turned-heroic-outlaw who lived in the woods, righting wrongs and thieving from corrupt nobles?"

"He was the perfect blend of charm and courage," Hawke sniffed defensively. She could see the dust and scratches in his armor now, as well as a few scrapes and nicks on the skin near his jaw. She rocked back on her heels, the extra inch of distance enough to keep her from pulling him close and running her fingers over every inch of his face.

Crossing his arms, the archer couldn't keep the warmth from his voice. "That makes me Fair Fiona, his lady-love, then?"

Mairead stood her ground. "Well, I'm the wanted vigilante with a ragtag band of ruffians, and she lived in an abbey and could hold her own with a bow."

"Fair enough."

After a moment, Hawke sighed again and settled her hands on her hips, glaring at the deservedly smug-looking prince. "Could you at least swoon or something to make me feel validated?"

Sebastian chuckled, closing the space between them in a few slow, promising steps. "I suppose I could think of a way for a maid," he murmured, leaning in, "to thank her brave and daring rescuer."

Smirking despite herself, Hawke closed her eyes and stretched to meet him – only to be interrupted by the loud, rough clearing of a cavernous throat. She opened her eyes and turned to see Bann MacDougall towering over them, thick arms crossed over his chest as he waited impatiently for an explanation of what in the Maker's name he had just witnessed.

"Never seen a man _saunter_ out from heavy guard before," he muttered. "Ye mind?"

The man had a point. Hawke turned back to the prince, curiosity temporarily overriding her irritation. "Seems like you had things well in hand before we got here."

As he was about to speak, something back toward the fortress caught Sebastian's eye. "I might not have," he began slowly, "without help."

The others turned to follow his line of sight – and saw Goran standing awkwardly at the rounded wall of the nearest tower, anxiously watching them in silence and clutching the royal circlet in his left hand.

In an instant, a half-dozen riders had dismounted and cornered him, forcibly yanking him away from the relative safety of the stone and half-dragging him over to where the Bann and Chantry brother stood.

Sebastian immediately objected, running to meet them and freeing his cousin from their vicegrip. "Let him go," he issued firmly. "No harm is to come to him."

Goran collapsed limply downward as he was released, and Hawke could see the exhaustion in his face, as though the mask of normalcy had been peeled off and revealed the harrowing truth of the last half-decade. Sebastian hoisted him up again, murmuring encouragements below her hearing.

"'No harm,' is it," the Bann repeated, eyeing the interaction warily.

"He freed me," Sebastian informed him, detaching himself from Goran as soon as the latter was stable. "Loudain nearly killed him for it." He met MacDougall's questioning stare and solemn understanding darkened his expression. "A guardsman," he informed him. "The Bann's body is in a hall on the second level."

The bear Bann nodded to a few of his men, who silently headed into the prison as he turned his attention back to the pair of princes.

"As fer this one," he began, but Sebastian interrupted him.

"No harm," he reminded, and MacDougall scratched his neck absently, though Hawke's attention was more on his eyes.

"Think on this, boy," he advised. "I'll abide what ye decide, but... a word o' caution from one who was here and saw wha' happened when he took th' crown in th' first place." He caught the prince's firm stare meaningfully, unmistakably alluding to the Vael family massacre.

Sebastian's expression hardened, and the undercurrent of turbulent anger that so frequently rose to the surface was visibly making its journey through the stiff muscles of his hands, shoulders, face.

"Ye don't have to be th' one t' give th' command to share responsibility for it," Guinn continued, his characteristic frankness allowing him a modicum of tact at least this once. "And there are those who won't be so keen t' give up th' power they had under him."

Mairead could see precisely where the Bann was headed with this. Goran had been the eye of the storm in Starkhaven; a small point of inaction as corruption and deceit had whirled around him and engulfed the city. He would continue to be so, willingly or no, by virtue of his continued existence alone.

And it was up to Sebastian, the unequivocal true successor to the crown, to decide his fate.

By now, news of his emergence from the fortress had spread throughout the company, the unoccupied remainder of whom had gathered around the conversation's participants. Hawke kept her distance, staying at crowd level, knowing full well that these men – men who would be his supporters for the throne – had come to witness their first glimpse of the character of the long-absent heir. To witness – and to judge.

She was no less interested herself.

After a few silent moments, Sebastian turned to his cousin and regarded him with an expression Hawke couldn't quite place. It was masked, to be sure, and masked well. He stepped a few paces closer with slow, deliberate purpose, and Goran's weariness settled into hollow-eyed resignation.

"MacDougall is right," Sebastian agreed. "You were at the center of everything that has blackened this city. You saw what was happening to our people, to our light, and you did _nothing. _Nothing, for so many years." His hand clenched and unclenched at his side. "But neither did I."

Pivoting away on his heel, Sebastian began pacing slowly, thoughtfully. "You are my kin, Goran," he said aloud, "and you have suffered. Yet you always had a _choice_. Your compliance to ensure the safety of one person jeopardized the lives of thousands and the stability of a city." His heavy brogue forced out the accusations with rumbling, angry syllables. "Such acts are treason of the highest degree when coming from a ruler, whose divine responsibility is to the people. You were aware of what your choice was doing, and still you made it. It is unforgivable."

"I was never meant to be prince," Goran agreed, and Sebastian's feet stopped in place.

"Your lack of leadership led to the corruption of our city," the archer confirmed. "But as you have shown me and I have shown myself, a man can change." He fell silent, and when he spoke again, his tone was gentled. "Cousin, I cannot have you here. Not if I am to rebuild."

His decision had been made, and every pair of ears in the vicinity was trained on his voice, awaiting the first telling signal of his reign. His first act would set the tone for his rule, and would indicate the man that he would be, the actions he would take in the city's name.

Sebastian straightened, facing the pretender prince head-on. "Upon pain of death, will you accept banishment?"

The future prince of Starkhaven had chosen mercy.

Goran's body slackened, fear escaping into the air as a sigh escaped his lungs. "Gladly."

"I am not yet prince," Sebastian continued as several of the Bann's men came to flank Goran on either side, taking hold of his arms. "And there are those who would harm you while you await judgment. You will be assigned a caretaker, and comply with them fully. Otherwise I cannot guarantee that you will live to see exile."

As he was led away, Goran turned back one last time to address the new lord of the lands. "Cousin," he called.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Be well."

A small, weary smile was Sebastian's response as he was swallowed by the crowd's rushing in to greet their new liege.

* * *

><p>As Sebastian walked about the men, offering thanks and graciously accepting enthusiastic and... <em>colorful<em> wishes for his reign, Hawke sought out MacDougall, who was watching the interactions approvingly.

"I don't know if I'm surprised or not," she mused aloud, observing alongside him. "He has a temper, to be sure, but also the compassion…"

"And th' blood of a prince." At the Champion's waiting frown, he explained further. "Showing compassion t' Goran will get him sympathy and approval from th' right people - and those who call for Goran's death will be th' ones to keep a close eye on and all that."

"So this is a titer for his courtiers?"

"He was given a prince's education, lass. He knows these things."

Hawke crossed her arms with a noise of assent in her throat. "It just sounds like something I would do."

Guinn grinned down at her, a gleam in his eye. "Then ye might be half-decent princess yet."

"There was any doubt?"

At his silence, Hawke casually kicked him in the back of the knee. He buckled, laughing.

* * *

><p>Making the rounds, Sebastian made his way through the fortress' gate grounds. He smiled and clasped arms with those who had rallied to his aid, genuinely grateful for their presence.<p>

And then, as a pair of horses were led away, he saw a blond Antivan elf waiting for him directly in his path, with a smirk on his lips and arms folded over his chest.

Resisting the rolling in his stomach, Sebastian approached him with a warmly outstretched hand.

"I understand that I have you to thank in part for my rescue," he offered as Zevran took his wrist firmly. "I am in your debt, ser."

He was keenly aware that the way 'ser' had come out sounded as though it were painful.

"Do not worry your newly royal self," Zevran replied, leaning in a bit closer than was comfortable for Sebastian. "I'm sure we can find... shall we say, _creative_ ways for you to repay me for my services."

When the prince tugged to reclaim his hand, he was surprised to find Zevran hadn't relinquished his grip. Instead, the elf reached behind him with his free hand to unhook something clasped to his back. As the weapon was pressed into his chest, Sebastian looked down...

...to see the familiar knotwork and gilding of his grandfather's bow.

As he reached up to take hold of it, his heart tightened. He had thought it irretrievable, and despaired. His treasure, one of the few mementos he had of his lost family, returned to him by a man he had never thought to place faith in.

The Maker had a curious way of showing him who his true allies were.

He knew the gratitude must have shown on his face from the smug, self-satisfied expression on the assassin, but it was well-earned. "There is nothing I can give," the archer managed, "that could possibly convey – "

Zevran pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I am sure," he offered, "that your charming bride will have a wealth of ideas, should you ask."

Sebastian snapped the bow into place across his back, chuckling. "'Creative' is Hawke's middle name."

"For which I am grateful, as you should be, no?"

"I always have." He turned to seek out the red-haired dagger master in the crowd, finding her trademark armor quickly amongst the sea of black and plate steel. "And if you will excuse me, I am reminded of a promise I need to fulfill."

The elf dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Sebastian felt a cool rush of air across the back of his neck as he walked toward Hawke, indicating that the former assassin had faded into the shade. Zevran apparently had something he needed to do – as did the prince.

* * *

><p>"...and I will have you know that I am as refined as <em>silk<em>," Hawke declared to the Bann, who beamed down at her with a wide grin.

"An' just as difficult t' work with," he replied. "Though th' whelp'll have more of a time with it than anyone." The Champion had just opened her mouth to retort, but Guinn interrupted as something approaching from behind her caught his eye. "Speak of th' devil."

"I know there's much to do," Sebastian apologized as he drew nearer, "and I fully intend on seeing it through. But I'd like to steal away the hero of the hour for a moment."

"Hero, my bloody arse," the Bann grumbled. "Just the noisiest, 's all." There was a warm brightness in his eyes, though, and he waved one massive hand with a snort. "Go on, then. S'pose I can give ye a bit."

Hawke smiled beatifically at him over one shoulder, making an obscene finger gesture in his direction as she allowed Sebastian to lead her away by the hand.

A leather-clad palm squeezed hers as they walked, and the chantryman had her full attention. Leaving the men of MacDougall's company and the fortress guard behind, she followed him to a pretty bit of the rocky cliffside that bordered the massive structure along one wall.

"Nice view," she observed, and the smile that lit up Sebastian's weary face pierced her sharply, like a well-aimed dart. It snapped the final thread in her already tenuous self-control, and as she gave in and wrapped her arms around him, she felt her shoulders shudder with relief. Her tension melted; the solid, living, breathing man pulling her in tightly was safe and sound.

"We were late," she breathed. "We were late, and all I could think of was you."

His hold tightened, almost painfully so, for a brief moment before his hands slid to her arms, granting her release and giving them a hair more breathing space to speak.

"I had time to think in my cell," he began. "And something Goran said quite surprised me."

" 'I don't want to be prince'?" Hawke suggested, and Sebastian chuckled.

"That," he continued, "but it occurred to me that I never properly asked for your hand."

Hawke swallowed. Hard.

"My hand?" she instinctively quipped, inwardly cursing her mouth. "Don't you want the rest? I have many other _very_ fine parts."

"Hawke," he chided, but she rapped her knuckles on his chestpiece dismissively.

"We had a sane, reasonable discussion," she declared. "And then the Bann decided for us. Took care of it."

"Aye," he murmured, "but forgive me if my motives are somewhat changed now."

"I already agreed! You don't have to do this."

"I want to."

"But– "

"Bear it," he said firmly, and circled behind her to gently push her shoulders down, urging her to sit on a fallen log long lost to time and the elements.

Hawke plucked at a mushroom petulantly as he walked back around the splintered wood. This promised to be a humiliating and _thoroughly_ unnecessary spectacle. Though she dreaded the incoming barrage of what could only be flowery prose, at least the view _was_ lovely, she conceded, and one makes do with what one has outside of a massive prison.

That, and a cliff seemed strangely appropriate.

She was brought out of her sulking by the crunch of grass as the prince took to a knee in front of her, and she dragged her hands down her face, mortified.

"Oh, for Andraste's sake, don't _kneel!_"

Undeterred – perhaps even encouraged by her obvious discomfort – he took her hands in his and adjusted his posture to look as formal and courtly as possible.

Upon seeing the conspicuously regal pose, Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Did you rehearse this?"

He smirked. "I had a few hours trapped in a cell to put my mind to it. Which brings me to my point." He shifted, clearing his throat. "This marriage is about strength, Hawke. I will be yours, if you will be mine." He caught her gaze, bright blue eyes paralyzing in their earnestness. "As you always have been."

"Always?"

"Since the moment you walked into the chantry and told me that you had, in a single day, avenged my family and saved my life."

"You paid me," Mairead pointed out.

"Still," he continued. "You showed me that day, and every day thereafter, that I could and would fight for what I believed in. And I will continue to do so, though– " his fingers tightened around hers, "I cannot even _begin_ to fathom walking into what I am about to face without you."

The archer leaned in, then, closing the distance between them ever so slightly. "I will fight with everything I have to keep this chance the Maker has given me. To keep _you_." A smirk curved his mouth, bringing a lilt to his rolling brogue. "Even if the one I have to battle is you yourself."

The Champion snorted despite herself. "I can guarantee it will be. At least once."

His smirk only broadened. "And I look forward to the day when you willingly surrender."

"Oh, good luck with– "

His mouth was on hers, then, sealing away any retort she may have been fully ready to unleash, and her irritation melted into a laugh that bubbled up between their lips. It interrupted the kiss only a moment before Sebastian pressed his lips to hers a second time, sliding his palms to her neck and winding his fingers into her hair.

"If you'll have me, Hawke."

There was tension in his hands – a slight vibration, a nigh-imperceptible tremble – as he waited. As he gave her this last chance to flee.

Hawke never backed down.

She kissed him soundly, stealing the breath from his lungs and the strength from his knees. "All right," she murmured against his mouth, smiling, "I am won."

He laughed – an honest-to-goodness, from-his-heart laugh – as he sank into another kiss. Hawke felt it in him: the relief, the joy, the promise. It stirred something in her, something visceral that hadn't been disturbed in what felt like an age. And now that it was awake, there was no stopping it. Even if she wasn't prepared for what may come of those still waters, she had no doubt that Sebastian was. Eager, even, to receive anything her heart had to throw at him.

Her head had nearly begun to spin from the lack of air and deluge of sentimentality, and she was almost grateful for the knock of knuckles on wood. She and Sebastian pulled back and turned to the source, watching as Zevran gracefully rolled out from behind a neighboring tree.

He tapped a thin finger to the grooved bark at his shoulder. "If you are _quite_ satisfied that you are now, indeed, twice as betrothed as you once were, our bearlike friend awaits a word."

Snickering, Hawke stood, brushing her backside free of moss and stray fungi. She reached behind her for Sebastian's hand as the three of them began to walk back, squeezing affectionately as she studied the Antivan beside her carefully.

"You were there the whole time and didn't interrupt?"

"I kept a respectable distance, as a gentleman should. Besides," he sighed theatrically, "as romantic as _I_ am, your prince is revoltingly so. Any longer and I might have vomited onto my fashionable-yet-practical boots."

"Romantic," Hawke scoffed, "you?"

A lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of his pursed lips. "You doubt it?"

"I'll ask Cadhla when I see her next."

Something glittered in Zev's eyes at the warden's name, and Hawke silently and wholeheartedly wished her two friends all the happiness in Thedas.

* * *

><p>Hawke had thought the worst of it was over when they returned to the city proper, beelining for MacDougall's estate. And yet, the Maker had not forgotten how much the Champion of Kirkwall <em>loathed<em> long, tedious, bar-the-doors-until-we've-rightly-finished political conferences. Though this particular festival of bureaucracy directly revolved around her imminent reign and the means to it, she wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a solid meal, and a good long respite in bed.

A testament to her politic abilities, though, she kept her grousing thickly buried and engaged in the extended discussions with their gathered allies and Goran, from whom spilled courtly secrets and machinations like an overturned bucket. The promise of freedom, whatever its conditions, had empowered and strengthened the browbeaten Vael, much to his cousin's relief.

Lords Lesley and MacLendon, along with Cedric Russel, were also among those in attendance. The Bann's closest courtly allies, they diligently outlined and debated the various strategies of how to best allow Goran to vacate the throne without inciting rebellion or anarchy.

They had seen the sun set and the moon rise before even the first steps had been settled upon, and Bann MacDougall called for a recess in the name of Andraste's mercy. Hawke had gratefully agreed, accompanying them to the estate's main gate in a gesture of etiquette – and equally to ensure that they did, in fact, leave her in peace for a few blessed hours.

Cedric Russell reached out clasp Sebastian's wrist. "The Royal Archers stand with Sebastian," he assured him, "and I'm sure my father and Lea do as well."

"You know the Antivans will support you," MacLendon added. "And you've well earned Guinn."

"Shallervale is Starkhaven's coinpurse," the Bann boasted proudly. "That's got some clout, though I say it m'self." With a hearty shout, he summoned the servants to open the doors, and he watched from the torchlit foyer as the nobles and their men emptied into the night.

"They'll be _begging_ for ye t' be prince by th' time ye get back," he declared.

Hawke had already made a break for the kitchens.

* * *

><p>Time found Sebastian on the second floor of the estate, just outside the doorway of the innermost guest chambers. The entryway was ajar, giving a person standing <em>just<em> at the right angle a perfect view of the inhabitants. He leaned against the wall opposite, arms folded across his chest as he watched his cousin and his mousy-haired, beekeeping lover just moments after their reunion. He had seen the shouting, the tears, the anger, the crushing embraces – all of which had ultimately led to this, the utter destruction of their walls risen against each other.

They sat and spoke quietly, the space between them full of warm affection – the only balm for the raw wounds the both of them suffered. There was something compelling about it, something that rooted him in place. Though he respected Goran and Sophie's privacy – or rather, _wished_ to – the heavy sense of longing in his gut held him fast.

He heard light footfalls approaching, recognizing their cadence with ease. Hawke quietly joined him, offering him a piece of a half-eaten roll she had very un-princessly stuffed in her mouth. They watched the couple in silence a moment longer before Sebastian spoke.

"Am I wrong for wishing him happiness?"

"No." Though her answer was immediate and certain, Hawke nudged him playfully. "She landed a hit on me. Distracted or not, that's saying something. You should be wishing him safety for life and limb, if anything."

That elicited a chuckle from the archer despite himself, but he could not dispel the strong envy that weighed on him the more he watched the two lovers heal. They were completely unguarded, the honesty pure. It was what he so desperately wanted from his combative bride; she would strip them both naked in a heartbeat, but he wanted to be _bare._

Hawke seemed to have misinterpreted his gaze, tugging gently at his arm. "Come on, give them their privacy," she prodded. "You can lecture him all you want later. You and I have some talking to do, and you haven't had a proper meal in days."

She led him down to the kitchens, to a small table near the fireplace already set with rich breads and generous cuts of meat. He noted with a smile that Hawke's plate was conspicuously missing small chunks of both.

He obliged her and sat, laying a lean strip of lamb on a slice of bread and taking small bites. Mairead was fiddling with something in her hands, something that glinted in the low light, and Sebastian had moved on to his second helping before he recognized the wedding bands he had purchased. It seemed the perfect opportunity, and so near a strategy meaning, that he thought it prudent to ask.

"When should we plan the wedding?"

Hawke laid them with a gentle _clack_ on the table's weathered surface. "It should be within the year to best take advantage of my ties with Cadhla. She'll be stepping down as queen soon."

"Stepping down?" Puzzled, he leaned forward on his elbows. He hadn't thought Hawke intimately familiar with the current political machinations of her homeland. "How...?"

"It was only a temporary arrangement to begin with," she explained, picking bits of fluff off of the bread in front of her. "Alistair was an inexperienced king, and Cadhla was bred and raised a sovereign. She married him to stabilize things, instruct him, and allow him time to find a proper wife before she would cite being unable to give him an heir as a reason to gracefully abdicate."

Admiration and sympathy for the Hero of Ferelden edged into Sebastian's thoughts. "My sympathies for Cadhla," he began, but Hawke dismissed it with a halfhearted flap of her hand.

"She's a Grey Warden," she stated matter-of-factly. "Nearly impossible to have children together, from what I hear. And it's all right, really." She waved a bit of crust at him. "Neither she nor her lover want children anyway, so it's no loss to either of them."

"Her lover?"

"Mm." She sipped at her wine. "At the beginning of the marriage, they agreed that they would go their separate ways, free to do whatever and _whomever_ they will, and find one another as soon as her obligations are finished." Snickering into her glass, Hawke grinned. "And he has been taking full advantage of the latter bit, trust me."

At his fiancee's entertained expression, Sebastian suddenly and transparently understood who this mystery lover was.

"Zevran," he marveled. "She's in love with _Zevran_?"

"Absolutely and completely," she confirmed, "and Zevran's black little Antivan heart has always been loyal to her, and always will be." She nudged him a bit with her foot under the table. "Does that make you feel better about certain... things?"

As much as he hated to admit it, the idea that absolutely no attachment whatsoever had been involved in their trysts had somewhat mollified the jealousy that had so overwhelmed him earlier. And though he'd be damned before he'd say so to the elf, Hawke was another story. "Yes, it does," he admitted, pausing to sigh at his bride-to-be's triumphant smirk from across the table. "Try not to be so smug at your husband."

She laughed, and though the sound warmed him, he knew that there was still more to address which would likely rob him of the sound. "How much longer should we stay in Kirkwall?" he queried gently, carefully.

As predicted, her expression sobered, and she focused her attention on the half-eaten mutton before her. "There's that. I don't know how long it'll take for things to sort themselves here, but I do have responsibilities, you know."

"I understand."

"Not just to the city." She ran her fingers along the knotted wood absentmindedly. "I need to take care of the estate. Put it in Bethany's name, find a steward that _isn't_ Gamlen. Maybe Varric knows someone. Bodahn and Sandal are welcome to stay, as is Orana." She lifted her gaze briefly to fix him with a pointed glare. "We're taking Ogre with us, you know."

Sebastian laughed at the mental image of having the large, fearsome-looking mabari present at court proceedings. "He will be a welcome addition to Arrow's Rest, I assure you."

"Good." Hawke sighed heavily, leaning back in her seat and running a few fingers through her unruly hair. "Aveline will have me out of her hair, at least, and she has Donnic now, but the amount of scabby riffraff I normally take care of will still be another burden on her and the guard. No one goes near Fenris' mansion; he can take care of himself. And Merrill's got Varric to watch over her, she'll learn to…"

Seeing her increasingly upset, the prince sought out her hand, his reassuring grip an attempt to stifle whatever train of thought threatened to pull her back.

"All things must change, _mo gràidh_," he assured her in soft, firm tones. "They are all strong and capable, as you've taught them to be." He allowed himself the hint of a smirk. "And if we should happen to mention any vacant houses or commissions in Starkhaven, even the Maker couldn't fault us."

She laughed at that, and he was bolstered to continue by her response. "How long will you need?"

There was a thoughtful silence, gears clicking and whirring behind her eyes as she tallied numbers and people and problems.

"With Varric's connections and some well-placed coin," she slowly answered, considering her answer carefully, "six months."

More than reasonable, Sebastian conceded, given the degree to which she was ingrained into the fibers of that city. "I will tell the Bann."

"And you will stay here?"

_Of course not_ was his immediate reaction. He would be what she needed him to be, so long as he was by her side.

His explanation, however, explored different reasoning. "I could use that time to train others at the chantry in their new duties, sever my ties cleanly." Hawke was watching his mouth intently – he had since gleaned that she was particularly fond of the way his accent rolled over his 'r's. With a mental note to be more mindful of his diction, in a more pleasing manner, he continued. "And as always, assist you in whatever way you may need."

Her expression gentled – though not warmed – and she pulled his hand up to press her lips to the skin there. "Thank you."

"Of course, Hawke."

After all, Kirkwall still awaited their return – rife with crime and corpses and conflict.


End file.
